


Facetious Zeus

by Strudelgit



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Background Grimmons, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Like really slow, M/M, Manipulation, aaaaaangst, lots of injuries, really slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2018-05-08 13:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 77,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5498960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strudelgit/pseuds/Strudelgit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>8 figures go in, 7 come out. Escaping the Staff of Charon was never going to be easy; Tucker's just having a harder time of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is direct continuation off of the end of season 13.
> 
> I have made artwork for this fic: they'll be embedded in appropriate locations in relation to the story. **Archive warnings potentially apply to the artwork in the fic as well.**

Tucker feels a little pinch at the base of his skull.

Then all hell breaks loose.

The door Charon’s soldiers had been trying to break down flies open and suddenly there’s gunfire everywhere. The sim troopers mow down the first wave of soldiers, who must have not been expecting such a well-armed and prepared resistance, but the next groups smarten up and take cover behind barriers that they must have set up down the hall while the Reds and Blues were trapped.

Lucky for Tucker, being “well-armed” includes having a force field and super speed.

He zips around like a pinball, hitting and stabbing Charon security forces until they all turn their guns to him, giving the rest of the sim troopers the opportunity to move out of Hargrove’s office and take cover behind the now-free barriers. Tucker ducks behind one as well once they’re all out. Church gives him readout on his HUD: 86% power left for armor enhancements. He better save it for later.

He swaps to his rifle. Doc (O’malley?) quickly clears most of the hall with his rocket launcher with a giggle, but Tucker can see he already only has two rockets left. They were going to have to get out of here fast if they wanted to make it out of this alive.

“Move up! Move up!” He shouts.

The group sprints up the hall, Sarge in the lead, giving the last guy behind cover a face full of buckshot. FILSS buzzes to life over the intercom.

_“Carefull! Reinforcements are coming from the hallway behind you to your right! They’ve cut a hole through those blast doors; you’ll need to take your second left and make your way up the elevator!”_

“Shit shit shit!”

They all run down the designated corridors and round the corner to see the doors firmly closed. Grif, Tucker, and O’malley turn around and raise their weapons, ready to keep the incoming soldiers at bay. One rocket later, and those reinforcements on their tail jump right back behind the corner. They start to take blind potshots and Tucker is forced to pull up the force field again to provide some cover.

Caboose looks up at the intercom, “Uh, Sheila? Could you, you know... pretty please, open the elevator? Please?”

_“I’m sorry, it appears I can’t access elevator controls at all, someone is blocking me!”_

“Simmons!” Grif shouts, “Hack the door!”

Simmons whips around, “If FILSS can’t do it _why the hell do you think I can!?!?!?!_ ”

 _“You are going to have to open them manually.”_ FILSS says.

"Oh,” says Caboose. “Okay.”

_…_

_...._

_…._

Caboose stands there.

“CABOOSE!” Everyone screams in unison. “ _GET THE FUCKING DOOR!!!!!_ ”

He jumps, “Yes! Yes! The door!”

Caboose stows his rifle and forces his hands between the doors. Even with his freakish might, he’s not getting it open fast enough though. Tucker tugs Lopez into his position (who immediately gets hit in the chest and throws a _“Pendejo!!!”_ after him) and jumps over to Caboose.

“Church! Gimme the super-strength!!”

Tucker hears Delta’s voice _< Rerouting power to motorized joints, power at 70% and counting.>_ and braces against the door opposite from Caboose. They slowly screech open.

“Alright everybody! Go, Go, Go!”

One by one they leap towards the ladder on the wall opposite the door. There’s a moment of panic when Grif falls quite a bit farther than the others before catching hold of it, and then it’s Caboose and Tucker’s turn.

“Alright Caboose, on three, Okay?” Tucker looks at the the man straining against the door trying to push close on the both of them. “One, Two-”

“Quick! They’re in the elevator shaft!” Tucker hears some Hargrove lackey shout, and bullets suddenly start flying in their direction.

“Oh fuck! Caboose, jump- NOW!” yells Tucker.

They do, and the heavy doors slam shut behind them

… But not all the way.

Tucker hears a shriek.

“Oh fuck! _Caboose_!!!” Grif shouts from below.

Tucker turns around from where he’s hanging on the ladder and loses his breath.

Caboose’s leg is caught in the door, definitely broken. He’s hanging awkwardly upside-down, hands scrabbling frantically, trying to find purchase underneath the door frame. If that wasn’t bad enough, Tucker can see the sparks from where the Charon soldiers are shooting through the door.... and at Caboose. He cries out every time his leg gets hit.

“Oh fuck fuck _fuck_!” Tucker swears, and looks around frantically, “FILSS!! Is there an elevator below us? Can you bring it right underneath... ” Tucker checks the shaft for a number, “Level 7’s door?"

_“I’m still being blocked from accessing this part of the facility! I’m trying my best but- Oh! Thank you Director! Elevator ETA is 56 seconds!”_

_“No problem! Help Caboose!!”_ a flicker of purple, a little kid’s voice… that was Theta, right?

“Church! Magnet boots!”

Tucker’s feet start to glow blue, and the HUD blinks at him warningly. 67%.

He climbs over to Caboose and the doors as fast as he can. He can just barely make out the elevator coming up through the darkness below, as well as Grif climbing downwards towards it.

Tucker spares a glance up the ladder. The rest of the guys were pretty far already, Simmons was hanging back a bit, keeping an eye on them, but Tucker can see Lopez’s torso shooting sparks in the dark at least forty meters above. FILSS opens the upper doors and- there goes O’malley’s last rocket.

Caboose was moaning pitifully. “Tucker, Church! H-Help... It hurts!”

“I know buddy… Just-” _Fucking Christ_ , legs were not meant to bend that way. “Just hang on, we’re gonna get you out.” Tucker begins shooting his rifle through the opening of the door above Caboose’s foot, towards the soldiers starting to creep closer. “Elevator’s almost here.”

Grif is already on the door’s side of the metal plane making it’s way up to them. It decelerates as it reaches Caboose, gently raising him to a less horrific-looking angle to the rest of his leg, though the movement is definitely causing him pain, seeing as it makes him scream once again. Grif grabs under the blue soldier’s armpits and gets ready to pull.

The moment it gets high enough, the elevator doors zip open. Grif yanks, Tucker withdraws his gun, and the doors slam shut again, leg-free. Caboose’s shaking shoulders betray his crying, but he gets up onto his good leg when Grif slings the big guy’s arm around his shoulders and helps him stand. Tucker lets out a shaky breath of relief. That was too close.

The elevator continues up, collecting Simmons on the way.

“The others are already through the next two hallways,” The maroon soldier hops down from the ladder. “But Donut radioed me and said they’d wait for us there.” Simmons gestures at Caboose, “Do you need help with him?”

Caboose was barely standing on his good leg, and leaning heavily on Grif. The other leg looks like shit: bullets had destroyed the greave and boot, some parts of the under-armor were shredded to bloody rags, and you could see where his thigh was swelling on the inside of his leg from the break above his knee. It was a wonder the guy was even standing.

“Hah! He’ll crush your twiggy ass; dude’s heavy.” Grif shifts his hold on Caboose, “No, I got him, you cover me.”

They were all wearing helmets, but Tucker could practically feel the eye roll coming from Simmons.

“Ugh, whatever, just don’t break him even more.”

They arrive at the open doorway and try not to slip in the evidence of O’malley’s rocket that lie in bloody pieces all around as they hurry through. It seems like the others have just cleared the room when they arrive.

“Theeere you are~!” Calls Donut. “FILSS says the docking bay is just a little farther, and Carolina and Wash and the others should be there for swift insertion from the rear end in a few more minutes!”

“Donut,” Simmons groaned. ”Please tell me you meant extraction.”

Donut taps his finger against his helmet thoughtfully, “Oh, Yeah, I guess I did! That doesn’t sound as exciting, though.”

Sarge turns to the newcomers. “We gotta hold our ground there till our ride arrives. The tank lady says she’ll take care of the doors as long as our glowy friend helps her out again.” He looks pointedly at Tucker.

Tucker says, “You hear that Church? Can you-”

 _“Soldiers are breaking into the docking bay! You all had better hurry!”_ FILLS inturrupts.

They hurry to the final blast door, which opens in front of them with a flicker of rainbow lights around Tucker. He can’t help but think that Church is being awful quiet, but he guesses running the suit as well as helping FILSS with the cyber-stuff at the same time would eat up anyone’s concentration. They all hurry through and emerge on a catwalk overseeing the docking bay. The place was enormous; Tucker could have sworn the Staff of Charon didn’t seem this large from the outside. Several ships that Tucker didn’t recognize were parked along the walls, most of them bigger than their standard Pelicans. Also bigger than a Pelican’s were the ships’ guns.

Tucker immediately spots the problem.

“Guys,” He says. “We can’t let our pick-up land in here.”

Grif stops helping Caboose down the stairs to turn and stare at him. “What the hell do you mean? Of course it can! There’s more than enough room.”

Sarge sees it too. “If our ship lands here, they’re gonna be cut to pieces by those guns there if anybody gets behind the controls.” The red helmet tilts thoughtfully. “I don’t see any other option though. Can the robots take remote control of them while we make a break for it?”

_“As long as I have the Director’s assistance, I am positive I can override the controls of those Calypso-class craft.”_

Some Charon soldiers were already beginning to come into view on the other end of the bay.

Sarge rolls his neck. “Alright then ladies, let’s book it!”

“Booking it” turns out not to work so well: Grif and Caboose can’t keep up, so while Doc, Lopez, Sarge, and Donut run out to the ground floor and towards the big bay doors, shooting as they go, Tucker does his best to shield the two hampered soldiers from bullets ( _< 62% power and dropping fast!>_). Simmons provides some cover fire, before getting distracted by his radio. His head recoils a little bit as a bullet glances off the side of his helmet, leaving a crack in the visor.

“Fuck!! Church, FILSS! ETA one minute! Get the bay doors!!” He turns to check on Grif. “Go faster you fatass!!”

“Caboose is the slow one here, asshole!!” Grif's voice sounds like venom, but he's clearly getting tired, and keeps re-adjusting his hold on Caboose, who hangs his head guiltily and mumbles a "Sorry" in between "Ow!"s.

They feel the pressure change all of a sudden as the bay doors open. The gust of wind pulls a couple of loose tools and tarps right out into the open sky, peppered with gold colored clouds. The view is beautiful, but not as beautiful as the fact that Tucker can see their Pelican coming in the distance.

Tension that he hadn’t even known he’d been carrying this entire time dissipates. A smile begins to creep onto his face. _They were going to make it._ Wash and Carolina and Kimball were gonna come sweeping in like goddam valkyries and shit and get them the fuck outta there. And then… And then Tucker could take a goddam nap or something. It had been a long fucking day; he can’t believe that they had left the others behind at the Communication Temple only a few hours ago. It felt like a week.

With renewed fervor, Tucker shoots at a couple of Charon soldiers trying to cut off their lagging group from the others. He pulls out his sword when they start getting dangerously close. Activating it makes the most satisfying crackling noise, and the thrum of electricity makes his arm tingle. The blue glow it emanates gives him a cool underlight that contrasts with the warm tones of Chorus’s sunset shining through the bay doors.

Tucker feels like a total badass.

He lunges forward. Activates super speed.

< _31% power_. >

With the soldiers focused on him, Grif and Caboose hobble by as fast as they can, with Simmons picking off the final people shooting at their injured party. The Pelican’s shadow darkens the bay as it finally, finally, finally, maneuvers into the room, and lowers it’s loading ramp to the ground. Tucker hears Carolina’s voice over local radio broadcast, and her crisp, commanding tone is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

“Into the ship, people! The Staff of Charon is warming up it’s anti-aircraft weaponry, we’ve gotta go ASAP!”

Doc and Lopez (who’s head promptly pops off in a shower of sparks into the hold) are already on, and Donut and Sarge are climbing up while shooting at some soldiers trying to flank the sides of the bay.

They’re so close. _They’re so close_.

So of course _something_ fucks it all up.

Grif and Caboose are a few feet away from the ramp when a wave of red shimmers across Tucker’s HUD.

“What the fuck was that!?”

FILSS echoes with horrible static across the bay. _“I’m s-zzzzttt-sorry Director! I tried my bes-zzzz- I can’t-”_

 _ <There’s another!>_  
_ <Stop him!>_  
___ <He’s draining our power!>_  
___ <Fight him!>_  
___ <22% remaining!>_

What the fuck was going on!?

Tucker looks across the bay, horrified. The Calypso fighters were all powering up. Turning their guns towards the Pelican. And the one in the back. The thing armed with several colorful shapes that Tucker distinctly recognizes as the same type of guided missile he had to catalogue at Crash Site Bravo. In fact, they could very well be those same ones.

Aimed right at them.

“Church! Switch on the time thing!”

 _< Temporal Distortion Unit activated.> _Delta, answers.

18% power. Everything is moving like molasses, including Tucker. But he has time to think. At least he has that.

“Church. Can we do that thing like Carolina did that one time?"

A rainbow of colors flashed and sparked on the edges of his vision again. It wasn’t Church’s voice that responded, but all the other fragments that Tucker had seen Epsilon conjure up when working with Carolina. Together, all speaking at once, somehow they kind of sounded like him.

 _ <What did we do?>_  
_ <With Carolina?>_  
_ <What time?>_  
_ <We don’t remember!>_

Gun barrels were starting to spin.

Tucker turns his head painfully slowly. “A shield bubble!” Sees Grif and Caboose. “Around the Pelican!” Three boots are touching the loading ramp.

 _ <We have Insufficient power, Tucker.>_ Delta says quietly.

Fuck.

They couldn’t make it. There was no way. Kimball, Caboose, Doc, the reds, Carolina, Wash, whoever else was on that ship, they were all going to be blown up, moments away from success. Tucker couldn’t help but be reminded of Tex; were they doomed to fail as well? Destined to die in a fiery ship explosion? Just because Tucker can’t make a stupid bubble!?

...

...Fuck.

“Can we just catch that missile as it launches?”

_ <If we draw power from other systems of the suit and you move a few steps closer to it… then yes. But you won’t be able to get on the escape ves-> _

“Do it.”

Tucker eyes all the guns facing him and wonders if the suit will take the worst of those hits. Probably not.

Well… the heroes never get to see the happy ending, do they.

“Hope there’s an AI heaven, man.” His throat feels tight. “...See you on the other side, Church.”

Not in quite the same way as he meant it an hour ago.

Church doesn’t respond.

Time speeds up again.

Tucker switches on his radio and begins to run back in towards the fighters. “We’re all aboard!” He shouts. He feels at least two bullets punch through his shoulder as the first gun barrel finishes warming up. “AUGH!! Go, go, GO!!!”

Carolina responds. “Grab onto something, everyone, we’re going out hot!”

Tucker hopes she can forgive him. Carolina has lost enough teammates.

Wash too.

There’s a shimmer of yellow in front of the missile-launching fighter right before the whole thing blows up in a spectacular shower of sparks and fire. No more missiles.

Tucker is about to sigh in relief before he suddenly falls to the ground with a yelp. It’s very easy to forget that suit weighs something like a thousand pounds when the thing’s got motorized joints carrying most of that weight. From how his head has landed, he can see bullets pelting off the back of the Pelican, some puncturing the hull.

He can see Grif is turning to him, hand reaching out, a second before the loading ramp closes on that last bit of orange.

He can see the ship fire off and leave his line of sight as the bay doors begin to slide closed as well.

He can see a boot drawing back to kick at his h-


	2. Chapter 2

          Wash’s ears were still ringing. Caboose had been shaking and yelling and crying on the bench that Grif had not-too-gently laid him down on for an hour, screaming for Church at every shot of pain up his leg. Which had been every time he moved an inch. It had been something of a self-perpetuating cycle. Even Freckles monotonously pleading at him to calm down had no effect, until the large man passed out from either the pain of his shredded limb, or not taking in enough air during his fit. Wash wouldn’t be surprised if it were both.

          He sits next to Caboose’s head, idly running his fingers through the sleeping man’s hair, hoping it brings some degree of comfort. The rest of the Soldiers on the plane are deathly silent, save for Sarge tinkering with the pieces of Lopez near the back, and Polomo’s cut off sobs. The kid's trying his best not to cry but he's not as practiced at it as Wash is. 

          Though… He’s not quite sure if it just hasn’t really hit him yet.

          He hadn’t seen Tucker get left behind. It had only been Grif yelling for them to turn back, that made him realize anything was amiss.

          The other Lieutenants are sitting around Polomo; Jensen holding his hand, while Anderson's hand is on his shoulder. Bitters next to Andersmith, holding up one of the other kids from Grif’s squad, the one with the yellow trim… Matthews? He's hurt, but already patched up: Doc and Grey are kneeling close by, doing their best with Caboose’s leg, but Wash has heard the words “amputate” and  “prosthetic” a few times between them, and he bizarrely thinks that Caboose won't be happy to learn he won’t have any pinky toes left.

          On the other side of the Pelican, Simmons keeps looking worriedly over at Grif, who’s glaring a hole into the floor, running his thumb over the edge of the bruteshot. Donut mirrors Simmons, but his worry for his teammate is much more palpable. He’s very jittery: twiddling his thumbs, tapping his toes, and playing with his his bright pink hearing aids.

          Donut breaks the silence after Grif jerks his hand back, having sliced through his glove and cutting his skin. “Grif… there was nothing you could have done, you can’t blame yourself.”

          Grif lets out a horrible laugh, “Who said I was blaming myself, huh?” He tips his head back and looks at the ceiling. “Those idiots had it coming, alright? How stupid do you have to be to stand off against gunships? I mean, we we’re goddamn good to go!!” He presses his eyes closed. "They should have helped _me_ out; I had my arms full with Caboose, there was no- We could have been out of there- I couldn’t have-”

          “Oh, Grif-” Donut starts.

          Grif slams his forearm into the safety bar beside him, and everyone but Sarge jumps. Donut’s starting to look scared. 

          “Church fucking offs himself all the fucking time!! I shoulda’ known he’d pull this kind of shit!! I could have saved them!!!” Grif shouts.

          “Grif!” Donut pleads. “He was running back! It’s not your fault!’

          Grif turns on the pink soldier. His hair is out of it's typical ponytail, making him look crazed. “He was like two feet away from me!!! I could have grabbed him! They were RIGHT THERE!!!”

          Wash hears Sarge let out a sigh, and watches as the old man gets up from the back where he was cataloguing the damage to Lopez.

          “Son,” Sarge says. “Those boys knew what they were doing. Those fighters would have knocked this ship outta the sky if they hadn’t blown them up first, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We barely made it out as it is!” He crosses his arms. “The least your lazy ass can do is be grateful for their sacrifice!”

          Grif glares, “Well maybe, _Sarge_ , I’m sick and tired of my friends sacrificing themselves! Maybe I’m sick and tired of people around me dying!”

          “Soldiers die, Grif! We either get cut down in defeat of go out in a heroic blaze of glory! That’s war-”

          “ _‘-Not everyone makes it.’_ Jesus christ, We know!” Grif shouts, “You sound just like that piece-of-shit merc! That doesn’t mean I have to sit around and pretend like I’m fucking happy they’re gone!”

          “No. You don’t. But you need to listen son: Those blues knew exactly what they were doing. Even if you could have stopped them, they wouldn’t have wanted you to.”

          Grif gets right up in Sarge’s face, and for a second, Wash thinks they're going to start trading blows before Grif says, “Don’t speak for the dead jackass!! If I’d pulled Tucker up with the rest of us, there’s no reason they couldn’t have done that damn bubble thing around the ship like Carolina did to keep us safe from that nuke at Armonia!!" Grif's expression changes, almost like he's pleading. "Church did it before! There’s no reason he couldn’t have done it again!”

          Sarge frowns at that. An uncomfortable silence fills the ship once again, and everyone stares at Grif as that thought runs through their heads. The man in orange armor sits down heavily, and Sarge spares him another glance before going back to the toolkit and Lopez, shaking his head. Wash finds himself a little startled at just how upset Grif is; he put such a convincing apathetic front most of the time. Wash didn’t think he cared much for anything, save for maybe Simmons.

          Wash moves his hand from Caboose’s head and starts to trace the yellow trim on his leg armor.

          Maybe he had stolen Grif’s apathy somehow.

          He feels… well, Wash doesn’t really feel anything right now. Just tired and a little dizzy. Like somehow, nothing outside this ship was real. Like there wasn’t a battle going on below between Charon and Chorus. Like Caboose next to him wasn’t losing his leg.

                   Like Tucker and Epsilon weren’t _gone._

          The door to the cockpit slides open and Carolina makes herself known. As she comes in Wash notices her glance over to Caboose on the bench. She’s wearing her helmet still, but he can see the slight tilt in the passed-out man’s direction. She’d gone up front with Kimball earlier, coordinating some soldiers still holding off Hargrove’s forces back at the Com Temple, but Wash knows the real reason she left was that she couldn't handle Caboose crying over Church without breaking down herself.

          She turns to all of them, arms crossed.

          “Alright guys, here’s our situation: We’re no longer holding the Com Temple. We sent and received the messages we needed, and without Felix’s key, enemy forces will be unable to do anything with it or to it, and we don’t have the manpower needed to defend it, so we’re leaving it be. In addition to the Staff of Charon, there are four more large battle freighters that have descended into Chorus’s atmosphere, as well as a handful of smaller fighter class ships. This guy’s got a whole damn army on his payroll.”

          Someone spits out a “Fuck!”

          Carolina’s helmet tilts, “It gets even better: We have confirmation that several of those ships have nuclear offensive capabilities.”

          Wash frowns, that's... not unexpected, but bad. Very bad. He hears Palomo burst out into sobs again, and Bitters starts swearing. Andersmith gets them both to quiet down when he asks “Why hasn’t Hargrove nuked us already then, Ma'am?” while his fingers thoughtfully trace his mustache.

          “That’s our one bit of good news.” Carolina takes off her helmet to reveal the hint of a bitter smirk… as well as tear tracks. “Some of our people activated the tractor beams that the pirates so graciously left behind. They’re not enough to bring Hargrove’s whole armada crashing down, but anything much bigger than a pelican can’t move. At all. Charon’s ships are trapped here, and if Hargrove tries to nuke this continent, he’ll start a chain reaction with some of the more volatile compositions near the planet’s surface and he’ll get caught in the blast too. All we have to do is hold him here till the UNSC comes. Before we left the transmission temple, we got confirmation that they’re on their way. They will be here in six months.”

          Simmons’s head shoots up, eyes wild. “Six months!? SIX MONTHS!? We’ll be dead in six months!!! We must have gone through over a hundred soldiers getting off of Hargrove’s ship, and there would have been way more if the VI lady hadn’t helped us out!” He runs the math. “If he’s got that many more ships, then he outnumbers us _at least_ five to one just in footsoldiers!!!”

          “Calm down.” Carolina says, “The size limit for ships also means he can’t move as many troops as fast as he’d like, so we’re not going to get overwhelmed any time soon. Plus,” She holds up her Needler. “We’ve still got these. And he doesn’t. 

          She looks over to Donut, “We’re regrouping at one of the captured Charon Research complexes. There’s a makeshift surgery there; you and Grif help the Docs get Caboose inside and set up.” Donut stops fidgeting and nods. “Bitters, bring Matthews there too. Simmons, I need you to help organize incoming traffic and get a headcount for all the soldiers that make their way there. Apparently we're still waiting on some people that escaped Armonia, but didn't make the rendezvous for storming the Com Temple. Sarge, how is Lopez?” 

          Sarge pulls his head out from where he was looking inside Lopez’s chest cavity. “He’ll be mostly good to go in a few hours. I’m gonna need to find some replacement parts for him though. A bunch of the internal cooling systems got shot through.”

          Carolina nods. “Andersmith and Jensen, you go assist Simmons. Polomo, you help Sarge find the parts he needs. ETA is 20 minutes, everyone.”

          The Lieutenants break into chatter amongst themselves while Simmons slides down the bench to fuss over Grif's thumb and the pair immediately start to argue. Carolina turns around to head back up front, but catches Wash’s eye and comes to sit down next to him instead.

          “How are they holding up?” She asks quietly.

          Wash shakes his head and closes his eyes. “Not well. Grif blames himself for not making sure Tucker got aboard. The Lieutenants are really shaken up... It's smart to pair Polomo up with Sarge: the old man'll keep him from wallowing too much. And then Caboose… I don’t know what’s going to happen with Caboose. I’m pretty sure he’s not keeping his right leg, I heard Grey talk about a prosthetic, but I’m more worried about how he’s going to handle Epsilon.”

          Carolina stiffens. Wash rests his head in his hands. “When you guys left the first time… When we first crashed here. Caboose was a mess, but I think he knew you’d both come back,  that you were both OK. He was just upset that Epsilon had left him. Now though…”

          He peeks at her to the side. “This can’t be easy for you either: you and Epsilon were close.”

          Carolina flips her ponytail over her shoulder and looks away. “I’m handling it. How are _you_ holding up, Wash? I could say the same about you and Tucker.”

          Wash snorts. “Nice deflection.”

          Her electric green eyes meet his once again. “I honestly didn’t mean it as one, Wash. Are you okay?”

          He leans back against the wall.

          “It’s like… like how it was with Maine at first. It hasn’t hit me yet. It doesn’t seem real, and I know once it does…” Wash shakes his head. “I can’t bring them back, I guess for now I focus on what I _can_ do. They gave their lives to save us, so the best I can do is make sure their sacrifice wasn’t in vain. The best I can do is fight back. Take down Charon.”

          Carolina nods. “Good. Kimball wants us both to help plan our next moves. Simmons is a little bit right: holding Hargrove’s people for six months isn’t going to be easy.”

          Carolina stands. Puts her helmet back on. “They’ll get Hargrove, Wash. He’ll get what’s coming to him. We’ll make sure of it.”

          And as she turns to go, Wash’s wall of apathy comes tumbling down. It’s not grief, however, that falls through.

          It’s white hot rage.

          Oh yes.

          Hargrove was going to pay.


	3. Chapter 3

          When Tucker comes to, his first thought is that he must be dead.

          His second is: no, he can’t be dead. Everything hurts. Unless this is what Hell is like? He’s done a lot of shitty things, but he doesn’t think he’s _that_ shitty, not enough to end up there.

          His third thought is _What the fuck is with this kinky shit?_ He’s face-down on some sort of massage table with an opening through which he can see a white-tiled floor, half naked, and the moment he tries to move, he realizes his head, torso, arms, and legs are all strapped down.

          If only some hot chicks would show up, then he’d know for sure what afterlife he’s in. Bow chicka bow wow.

          Tucker just lays there for a few minutes, before he starts testing his restraints again. "Hello?" He calls. "Anyone gonna let me outta this thing?"

          _< About time you woke up. I thought I was going to have to put up with your whistle-y nose breathing forever!>_

          That bitchy tone. That whining. Tucker had never been happier to hear it.

          “Church!” Tucker shouts. “Oh thank god, man, I was getting worried there with the silent treatment! Not that your split personality shit isn’t cool and all, but all those colors all over the place? It was like eyesore city! That shit causes seizures you know!!" 

          Church’s sprite flickers to life standing on the floor, arms crossed, looking up at Tucker. “Yeah well. You know. Running all those armor enhancements at once is not _exactly_ what I would call a good time.”

          “Caboose and the others made it out.” Tucker says through the face hole, smiling. “I think we can say it was worth it.”

          “We’ll see.”

          Tucker frowns. “What do you mean ‘we’ll see’? We saved the fucking day!”

          “Tucker, we’re not dead. We’re still on the Staff of Charon.”

          Tucker’s blood runs ice cold.

          “Fuck. Fuck! Shit get me out of this thing! What did they do to me? Did they do butt stuff? That’s not cool! Oh fuck-”

          “Tucker, shut up,” Church says. “No butt stuff. You were unconscious for a few days, I think they drugged you. They took away your sword and the armor. They locked me into your neural implant, so I haven’t been able to snoop on what else is going on here. They, uh, also did surgery to the back of your head. I did a scan of the stuff they put in there…”

          “And??”

          “And now you will find that I have quite a bit of leverage over you, Mr. Tucker.” A lightly accented voice interrupts.

          Church flickers off, and Tucker can feel two sets of hands fiddling around with the straps holding him down. His heart races and he immediately begins to struggle again.

          “Hey!! Don’t fucking touch me assholes!! Fuck off!! Get your fucking hands off me- AAAAUUUGGGGGHHHHH!!!!”

          It feels like every nerve in his body is on fire. Like someone is taking a million needles and shoving them as far into his skin as they can. Like someone is rubbing sandpaper along his teeth and grinding away his bones. Pure, blinding agony.

          And then it stops. Tucker collapses back down into the sticky, plastic cushioning of the table, gasping for breath and sweating like he’d just run a marathon. Vision blurry from tears, and head throbbing; he feels like throwing up.

          “Mr. Tucker, while I distinctly enjoy seeing anyone who’s caused as much trouble for me as you have in such a position of... vulnerability, I’d rather have this particular discussion face to face. Help him up.”

          The restraint around his head unbuckles. Then hands grab his arms none-too-gently and yank him up into a seated position, which really, _really_ doesn’t help with the headache or the swimming vision. When his eyes focus, Tucker finds himself face to face with two scary looking medical technicians, four armed guards all pointing their weapons at him, and a disgusting, slimy, shitty, pasty, gross, bald, bald, bald, cocksucking, evil, piece-of-shit, bald, jackass. 

          Hargrove was smirking.

          “As I was saying, before your little fit there, you and your holographic friend are in a bit of a precarious position. However, I am a reasonable man, and I believe we can come to an agreement that will benefit the both of us-”

          Tucker snorts.“If you think I’m gonna do a single fucking thing to help you, then you’ve got another thing comi-AAAAUUUGHH!!!!”

          Blinding pain again.

          When he comes out of it, he can taste copper in his mouth. Tucker realizes with a shock that he bit off a chunk of the inside of his cheek, and spits it out on the floor along with a sickening amount of blood. Ugh. At least Hargrove looks as grossed out by it as Tucker feels. 

          “Do try and behave.” Hargrove sneers. “My patience only goes so far.” 

_Yeah, whatever, fuck you._

          One of the technicians pulls out some gauze and Tucker begrudgingly lets her put it in his mouth against the wound. Part of him wishes she was doing it with her hands instead of tweezers: maybe if he bit off some fingers, they’d just shoot him already and he wouldn’t have to put up with this shit.

_ <Cut that out.> _

          Tucker huffs in frustration, composes himself, then turns his attention back to Hargrove, who begins to pace in such a way that can only be described as “monologuing villain”. He can feel Church trying not to snicker at that.

          “I came to this planet seeing a valuable investment opportunity, but as some investments do, this one has turned quite sour. I find myself time and time again thwarted in my efforts to salvage what it is I have here, but I am at a point where I can no longer pretend that there is anything else for me to do other than leave, or be incarcerated.”

          The old man’s cold grey eyes turn to Tucker, and he finds himself wishing he had on more than just his underwear.

          “Now obviously the latter does not appeal to me. However, your friends on Chorus have me trapped here and in such a way that I cannot simply mow down their opposition, despite my superior numbers and firepower.” He squints his creepy stupid eyes. “Oh, yes. If it weren’t for the General’s crafty little move, they’d all be but bloody smears left on the surface of a burning planet. Yourself included, Mr. Tucker.”

          It sounds like the others really did get away, Tucker realizes. _Thank god._

          “Now, I am not the kind of man to oversee what a golden opportunity fate has delivered me, and that is where you come in. See, the M374 Hephaestus armor was missing quite a major component for it to function properly, and thanks to you, it fell right into my hands. All those pretty little wires and chips in your head are much more valuable a commodity than I think you’re aware.”

          Hargrove smirks. Tucker doesn’t like where this is going.

          “I hope you can forgive us for making a few… modifications to them.”

          Tucker _really_ doesn’t like where this is going.

          Hargrove continues. “The thing about tools is that you need to be able to count on them to do what you need. And what I need is a capable and versatile soldier, who knows how my opponents think, to run infiltration and espionage in order to release me and my ships from this God-forsaken planet and it’s tractor beams. And I _know_ I’ll be able to count on you for that job because… well. If you don’t-”

          Hargrove waves his hand, and a bunch of holographic screens appear. It takes Tucker a moment, but he soon realizes that they all have stuff to do with _him_ . One’s a medical chart, with all his injuries and old illnesses listed (They even have his _citrus allergy_ from when he was a kid). Another has a bunch of diagrams that Tucker realizes with a jolt are real-time readings of himself: heart rate, brain waves… the real spooky sci fi stuff that Tucker might have been more used to seeing if Doc had been any good at his job, or if he’d felt comfortable being around Dr. Grey for any period of time longer than five minutes.

          One screen’s contents aren’t about him though. Lots of photos. Some familiar, some not, some from a planet very far away.

          “The fuck!??” Tucker’s ready to jump up again, brain-bomb or whatever-it-is be damned. “You stay the fuck away from my kid!!”

          Hargrove’s eyes glint in mirth at having struck a nerve. “Oh, I assure you, I would like nothing more than that, Mr. Tucker.” He cycles through the photos and enlarges one. Junior is at some sort of alien lecture hall, speaking at a podium. It must be recent. He looks good: healthy, well dressed, in his element. Junior had always been the better diplomat. Tucker’s heart pains to see how much his kid has grown up without him.

          “However, I want something from you, and I would like your word that I am going to get it.” Says Hargrove. “Your little abomination isn’t popular with every Sanghelian, you know. Not all of them are religious fanatics, and not everyone thinks this peace treaty is going to last. Levernius Tucker the Second is a bit of a political target; but you’d be quite surprised at just how _easy_ it is to find a willing assassin.”

          _Fuck fuck fuck no. Anyone but Junior._ Tucker can feel his eyes prickling and squeezes them shut. It’s been years already since he last saw his kid. Tucker was going to hop on a ship and visit Junior’s academy after the whole Project Freelancer bullshit was done. Hell, Junior probably thought he was dead after the _Hand of Merope_ crashed and never arrived on Earth, but through all the bullshit on Chorus, it never crossed his mind that he might never see his kid again.

          Hargrove waves forward a different chart, which contains… x-rays? Tucker recoils at the amount of metal the pictures reveal is in his head. His first instinct is to grab hold and rip it all out. 

 _ <Tucker, stop.> _ Church whispers, before he can move. _ <Don’t be stupid.> _

          Tucker stiffens and forces himself to study the pictures more carefully instead.

          The minimal amount of original cybernetic implants when Tucker first had been assigned to Blood Gulch had maybe been a couple of wires running up into his skull and the port interface at the surface of his neck. This thing… It looked like a web made by a drunk spider. Little clumps of metal blocks and pins and circle sensors and everything ran over every lobe and were all connected to each-other with hundreds of wires of varying sizes. The little chip-jack that he’d stuck Epsilon into after taking him from Carolina was no longer on the surface of his skin; he could barely recognize Epsilon’s chip near the back of his head, but now located on the inside of his skull next to a much larger contraption.

          For how much stuff was crammed in there, it was a wonder there was any space for his brain. Tucker feels panic rear it’s ugly head when the thought occurs that maybe there wasn’t... maybe they chopped some of it off. _Jesus Chris-_

 _ <Calm down Tucker, it’s all there.> _ Church’s voice breaks through his horror. _ <Trust me, look, all that shit over there? It’s pretty flat. True it’s probably all pressing into your brain, but the brain itself has no nerves, you can’t feel it. You’re fine.>_

_Fine? Ha!_

_ <Okay yeah, you’re right; we’re totally boned,> _ Church says. _ <But you’re not going to suddenly forget how to speak english or how to wipe your ass or whatever, okay? Keep listening: we gotta figure out what to do about this shit.> _

          Hargrove decides Tucker has had long enough of a look and waves the hologram away again. “As you can see here, we have quite a lot of pretty little things sticking out of your parietal lobe. If we find you out of line, if you fail to complete the tasks assigned to you, then you will find yourself experiencing a world of pain and misery the likes of which you have never known. But I don’t need to tell you that, I think.”

          He smiles.

          Tucker wants to punch him right in the face. But first he wonders…

          “Why the fuck are you putting me through all this? Surely you got enough shitty goons willing to jump through hoops for you.” Tucker points to one of the guards. “What about him? He looks like a proper asshole, make him do your dirty work.”

          The guard shifts uncomfortably while Hargrove rolls his eyes. “Oh please, Mr. Tucker. Interfacing with an AI is notoriously unsafe. Need I remind you of Agent Washington’s history with the fragment that you’ve been chatting with this whole time we’ve been conversing? Quite rude, by the way. An antagonistic AI in one of my own men is a lot less beneficial than that same AI stuck in you. I doubt it will self-destruct in _your_ head, and if it does?” Hargrove smiles. “It’s all the same to me, really. I’ll find another way.”

          Tucker can feel a slight burst of rage from Church, that simmers down into some kind of low-key hatred.

          “...I won’t kill anyone.” Tucker says with a glare. “You can’t make me.”

          Hargrove looks amused. “We’ll see.” He says. “In the meantime, Mr. Tucker, I believe we have a deal. You will be evaluated by my staff in a few hours and made to go through some conditioning; for a soldier, you are woefully unfit. How on earth _you_ lot managed to fend off Locus and Felix for so long is beyond me. Good day.”

          Hargrove and his entourage exit the room, leaving Tucker to sit on his weird little massage table thing as the doors snap shut with a sickening sense of finality. The rest of the room is horribly sterile and he finds that he wants to distract himself with anything. Absolutely anything. Anything that’ll keep him from thinking about this fucking horrible situation he’s in. Shit. He stares downwards and starts to pick at his fingernails. The slight stinging pains ground him a bit. 

          Junior would be fine. He was the freaking chosen one, and an official diplomat at that; there was security around him day and night. It wouldn’t even be the first time the kid was in danger, and Tucker knows he can hold his own in a fight. He was seven years old! Practically a grown-up! Right? 

          Maybe Tucker should have taken up the UNSC on some of those cultural sensitivity courses… He pretty much stopped doing any research on aliens beyond ‘No, baby sangheili are not supposed to drink blood. Whoops.’

         Assassins though... That was a whole 'nother thing. Tucker knew better than anyone the caliber of mercenary Hargrove's money could buy. The phantom pain of a knife in his gut could attest to that.

          Church flickers into view again when red starts to bead at Tucker’s fingers.

          “Ugh that’s gross. Cut that out." 

          Tucker glares, pulled out of his trance. “Fuck off dude.”

          He sticks his bloody pinky in his mouth and looks over his scars instead. Wait… hadn’t he been shot through the shoulder? He takes a moment to look for the wound. Tucker must have been out quite a bit longer than Hargrove’s people were letting on. Not only had he apparently gone through brain surgery and had time to heal, but the only indication he had been shot at all were two ugly, but fading, scars. He even still had full range of movement with the arm. Being used to patchwork first aid and Doc, being fixed up by real professionals with real equipment was surprising, but even so, he must have been out for at least a week.

          A whole week or more. The others must think he’s dead.

          Tucker wonders if they gave him a funeral.

          Kimball would have probably given a speech. A really inspiring one that motivates everyone to fight back harder, probably with a big “Fuck you Hargrove” at the end, she’s good at those. Donut and Caboose would have cried (Caboose only for Church though. Asshole), and Grif would do that stewing thing he does when he’s genuinely upset until he inevitably lashes out at Simmons and they have one of their really bad fights. Sarge would take Kimball’s speech to heart and probably try whipping the army into shape. Wash and Carolina would probably do the same, and actually get results from it. Lopez was probably just a head again, Doc would get that psychoanalysis from Grey, and the Lieutenants would move on, work harder, become better soldiers. Even fucking Palomo.

          And Hargrove was going to make him work against all these people, his friends and family. 

          Tucker lies back down on the table. Puts his palms flat over his eyes to block out the harsh lights. “What that hell are we going to do, Church? Hargrove is like. Literally satan! We can’t help him get away!”

          “Tucker… I don’t think we have much of a choice.” Church appears on Tucker’s chest and stares him down. “If we play along for now and wait for the right moment to escape, maybe we can get some help. We’re bound to run into Vanessa’s people or the others at some point in these missions, right?”

          Tucker drags his hands down his face, wincing as he moves his injured cheek, and looks at the little white hologram. The photo of Junior floats through his mind. “I can’t let anything happen to Junior, Church. I can’t. If Hargrove is gonna put him in danger… I don’t know if even Kimball can help us.” 

          “Then we’ll be careful about it.” Church flickers off.  _< Get some rest, Tucker. I feel like you’re going to need it.>_

          Tucker turns on his side and closes his eyes.

          ...  
          ...  
          ...

          “...Hey, Church?”

          _< Yeah?>_

          "...Do I really look ‘woefully unfit’?”

          _< Kinda. Your arms are sorta flabby, and forget abs…>_

          Tucker frowns.

    _ <Your calves are rock solid though?>_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it's not already clear, I'm borrowing from Animorphs for internal dialogue from AI that go directly to someone's head. So anything within that framework is not being spoken aloud, but is just between the POV character and the AI.


	4. Chapter 4

          The first week or so is awful. Wash finds himself constantly forgetting that Tucker is gone, and being painfully reminded when he hears no witty, lascivious commentary when passing a boulder that maybe, possibly, _really_ looks like a giant dick, when some of the soldiers are just being dumb, or when walking by that volleyball girl doing yoga in the training room every morning. He notices the same with Carolina: barely catching herself from trying to pull up Epsilon every few hours, pursing her lips to prevent his name from slipping out, expression hardening in record time. 

          The two of them get quieter and quieter and the days drag on.

          Wash spends most of his time with Caboose, trying to lift the man’s spirits with various board games that Sarge and Polomo had found in the facility while scavenging for parts. Caboose doesn’t talk much nowadays, never smiles either. 

          The change in demeanor is incredibly unsettling. Wash had never considered interacting with Caboose _easy_ exactly, but everything the man said had at least some form of logic to it, and he talked so much it was never too hard to follow his line of thinking.

          Now though… Holding a conversation is next to impossible: Long bouts of silence are interspersed with seemingly random comments, that only much later Wash would figure out are related to a prior topic or line of thought. It’s frustrating, to say the least, but Wash can’t leave Caboose when he’s the only teammate he has left, what with Carolina still avoiding him (if Caboose even considered her a Blue). As Epsilon’s primary piggybacker, Wash is under the impression she feels guilty for having kept Caboose from his best friend so often.

          Today they’re playing scrabble with Andersmith, trying to pass the time until Wash needs to go to his meeting with Kimball and Carolina. It’s almost fun; trying to dig up random vocabulary is a good distraction, until Caboose accidentally knocks over his tile-stand and lets a mumbled “Tucker did it.” slip. Wash feels a tightness in his chest and quickly excuses himself, leaving Andersmith to pick the game pieces off the floor.

          He still has about an hour before he has to be anywhere though, so he wanders through their new base. It’s…. Inadequate for their needs, to say the least. New soldiers keep trickling in from all directions; Chorus soldiers and ex-mercenaries and pirates alike. Though Kimball was hesitant at doing anything other than shoot them at first, enough of them came up with the same reasoning for wanting to fight Hargrove that she begrudgingly allowed them to assist their cause, though not without being put under very tight watch.

          It seemed that even those bloodthirsty, moral-less crooks realized that there was nothing stopping Hargrove from wiping out the planet beyond the united armies of Chorus. Still, many had tried to haggle with the General, who would only go as far as to promise to vouch for their assistance to the UNSC when they show up and arrest them. These were all rotten criminals who had tried to kill her and her soldiers as recently as a few days ago, after all.

          Every few days a couple pirates decide that that kind of deal isn’t good enough.

          Every couple of days, Kimball decides that those pirates don’t have enough bullets in them.

          The time for negotiations has long since passed. Tensions are high, the base is crowded, and everyone is terrified; dreams of mushroom clouds and burnt skeletons haunting their dreams. The miserable thought of everything ending in one fell swoop evident on the faces of the hundreds of soldiers pressing in from every direction. Fold-up cots and sleeping bags lining the various rooms and hallways only add to the feeling of claustrophobia. 

          Wash isn’t particularly bad about large crowds or tight spaces, but the inescapable nervous atmosphere is too much for him. He finds himself wandering outside, far from the base, climbing around the rocky slopes and hills, the oxidized dirt and clay leaving reddish dust on his armor. Not like it was clean before anyways. He finds a nice little alcove overlooking a field from high above and sits down and watches Chorus’s second sun finish rising.

          It was a gorgeous planet, really. Though it was devoid of all pretty much any kind of animal life save for the bugs and the weird lizard-birds (Wash didn’t know if that was a natural or man-made situation), the grasslands and jungles were really lush and colorful. Depending on which sun’s light the blades of grass were reflecting, the field before him appeared to be multi-hued, and in the slight breeze it glittered. Like an oscillating sea of blue, purple, and green.

          Wash wants to feel the wind in his hair. He shouldn’t take off his helmet out here in the open, but he’s been (barely) sleeping in full armor since they started to harbor the pirates, and the recycled air in his suit is so stale and disgusting and suddenly- He can’t stand it, and unclips the seals, and rips the damn thing off. He’s got the clarity of mind to keep himself from chucking it into the the field, but just barely. He digs his fingers into his head and ruffles up his hair. The air tastes dry, but feels nice and cool on his face.

          He’s been spending the past week completely surrounded by people in every direction. Whether he’s keeping Caboose company in the room they’re calling a medbay that’s packed with other patients, or leading the soldiers in drills, or keeping watch and standing guard over the pirate’s designated area, or just sleeping in his chair against the wall in between Sarge and Bitters and something like thirty other soldiers...

          He’s so godamn lonely.

          Wash never realized how much he’d come to rely on Tucker just… as a friend. Sure, they’d always bicker, but after the whole group had been split up by Felix and Locus, their fighting didn’t have any sting to it anymore. It was more like comfortable banter once Tucker had assumed some responsibility for himself, and Wash stopped feeling like he needed to push him so hard. Tucker had been someone to look at in solidarity when someone else in their group was being ridiculous. They had a system: Wash would make a perplexed face and Tucker would roll his eyes so far they were in danger of falling out of their sockets, while Sarge barked or Caboose rambled or Grif and Simmons bitched at each other. And sure, Tucker could be crass and lazy, but he was easy to joke with, and made Wash crack into a grin on more than one occasion. And now…

          The Reds never quite liked him, what with shooting Donut and all. They respected him, sure, but Wash didn’t think any of them would consider him a friend really, as much as he’d like to think otherwise. Sarge being Sarge, and Grif and Simmons constantly orbiting around each other in some sort of masochistic hate fest. Only Donut, oddly enough, was nice to him but Wash can’t take his aggressive optimism, even when these days it’s clearly a facade. He couldn’t really consider himself close to any of them, even after spending those months alone with Sarge and Donut, shepherding them around nervously while Locus silently observed. _Like sheep to the slaughter..._  

          Doc’s still nervous around him, and with the O’Malley personality randomly making itself known, Wash isn’t exactly keen on being around the him either. Emily is nice enough, but terrifying and unnerving in her own right. Caboose says _maybe_ a paragraph’s worth of sentences a day.

          The only person he really feels like he can be close to anymore is Carolina, but even she has been withdrawn lately. Going out on lone patrols (against everyone’s advice) all day and completely enveloping herself in tactical theory and war strategies at night, even Wash is worried that she’s not getting any sleep. Losing Epsilon is looking to be worse than when she lost Eta and Iota, from how she’s described her days after the Project.

          Wash just wants his friend back. He wants back the dynamic their group had, the easy camaraderie that he hadn’t known since Freelancer imploded. Now everyone is grieving, and he hasn’t been able to relax in nine days.

          And without Tucker... with blue team fractured... he doesn’t really know how.

          An alarm beeps from his helmet on the ground next to him.

_Crap! The meeting!_

          Wash tries to wipe tears out of his eyes (were they from the wind or melancholy? he isn’t sure), but only makes them worse by rubbing in the dust from his gloves. Damn it. He crams on his helmet, and makes his way back to base.

 

* * *

  

          “Look who decided to show up.”

           Kimball is sporting a weak, teasing smile when he finally makes it through the door of the closet they’re calling her office. Carolina is not. 

          “What on earth took you so long, Wash?” Carolina snaps. “No one knew where you were. Andersmith said Caboose made you upset and you stormed out. What happened?”

          Wash wants to roll his eyes but they’re still stinging. He definitely has a grain of sand or dust or something under his eyelid, but he’s not about to take his helmet off again to try and rub it out. The best he can do is keep the one eye closed and try to look only straight ahead. Thank god for the visor.

          “I did not ‘storm out.’, alright? I needed some air.” Wash crosses his arms. “I’ve been playing board games with the guy for the past four days straight and I couldn’t take Caboose misspelling ‘because’ and Andersmith backing him up anymore. I went for a walk.” 

          Carolina glares, but lets out a huff, and turns back to the datapad in front of her.

          “Hargrove’s found one of the tractor towers.” She starts. “Luckily we had some security measures in place there already. Turrets took out their scouts, but the point remains: we can’t stay grouped up here for much longer. We need to start moving out.”

          Kimball rubs her eye and yawns. It seems it’s not just Carolina who’s missing out on sleep due to stress. “I don’t think spreading ourselves thin is the answer: the amount of ground we have to cover is… not really feasible. Even with the pirates help, and that’s assuming they can be trusted. Which they can’t.” She rests her chin in her hand. “And if we split up into smaller groups, it would be easier for Charon to take the alien weapons from us, which is really the only thing we’ve got going for us.”

          Wash sits down and scans the notes and maps laid out in front of them. It’s a lot of tractor beam towers. Seven in all. And each many, many kilometers away from the next. Only four are on good, defendable terrain, with the other three being out in flat, open land. And the operational centers for two aren’t even close to the towers themselves. Nine locations in all, and at most they have three hundred fighting-fit troops. A fifth of whom they can’t even trust.

          Yeah. It doesn’t look good.

          Hmmm.

          “... Do we need to hold all of them?” Wash asks.

          Kimball frowns. “Well, no. Not to keep our grip on Hargrove’s ships. But if too many get taken out of operation, then that whole fleet is free. We should hold them all just in case.”

          Wash runs the math. To the best of his ability. “Well, if we try to hold all of them that’s a crappy… what? A little over thirty troops per site?”

          Carolina is silent for a moment, and then cringes. Takes a sip of her water to hide the fact that she’d waited for more exact numbers from Epsilon. Wash pretends he didn’t notice. 

          Kimball replies. “Yeah. That’s about right. But we’ve still got injured to take care of, and people going out for supplies, fuel, rations, what have you. It’s more like a little under thirty.”

          Ouch. Well then.

          “So let’s figure out which we _need_ to defend. And pool our soldiers there. Look, the four here?” He points out the towers in the mountain ranges. “We split a big chunk of the force between those, fortify them with some AA guns, make them really really unattractive for a hit. Make the middle-most one our new base of operations.” 

          Carolina looks frustrated. “Okay great idea, Wash, but that leaves four sites wide open, and three beams down is enough for Hargrove to escape and blow this rock to kingdom come.”

          “Can we lose two?” Wash asks Kimball, who looks very uncomfortable about where this is going.

          “Jesus Christ...” Kimball says. “There’s acceptable losses, but only being one loss away from getting obliterated is cutting it way too close. You can’t possibly expect that to work, Wash.” 

          “Listen, this _can_ work. Put me, Carolina, and most of the pirates on on the east site.” Wash points to the map. “They’ll listen to us: they’re still scared of anything that came out of Freelancer, especially with us besting Locus and Felix. It’s the one they’ve already tried to raid, right? And with those numbers, we should be able to successfully fend off an attack when it comes again. And if not....” Wash shrugs. “It’ll just be us two and a bunch of soldiers we can’t trust anyways. Acceptable losses.”

          Carolina looks… surprisingly on board with this. “Okay, but we still need to defend another site. What do we do about these two?” She gestures to the tower who’s operational facility is about a kilometer away from it. 

          “Leave them.” Wash says. “It’s not defendable at all, and it’s twice the location for only one tractor beam.” 

          Kimball jots down a few notes. “Alright then. What about the last site? I want at least one tower in reserve, Wash. We can’t have all our eggs in one basket.” 

          Uh. Wash forgets about the sand in his eye and blinks stupidly. Ouch. Okay, maybe he didn’t have all the details hashed out.

          Carolina seems to have an idea though. “We’re not the only ones the pirates respect, Wash.” She turns to Kimball. “Send the Reds and Bl-” Everyone freezes. Carolina tries again. “Send the Reds to the last site with some pirates too. With the gear they snagged from Hargrove’s ship, they stand just as good a chance as us.”

          “i need Simmons here for organizing the troops and crunching our numbers.” Says Kimball, around the same time Wash says “There’s no way we’re leaving the Reds alone with those bastards.”

          Carolina huffs “Fine! Keep Simmons, put the Lieutenants there instead. Add some Chorus soldiers. Whatever. We can finagle this. But, this… This is a good start. At least. Better than where we were at before.”

          Kimball seems unwilling, but finally nods her head. “Alright. We’ll go with this for now. But if we lose one more tower, then I’m sending reinforcements from the mountains to the remaining one. We need to hold out for six months, We can do this.” She starts to stack everything in a pile and waves them both off. “I’ll talk to you all later, I have to go talk to Simmons about our newest ‘recruits’.” She say while making a face.

          They all leave the room, with Carolina and Wash heading down the same direction.

          “How much have you slept in the past week, ‘Lina?”

          Carolina glares, “Enough.”

          “Yeah?” Wash says. “I felt like I needed to ask, because letting go of that one tractor beam facility in the middle of nowhere should have been a no-brainer for you.”

          She looks about ready to punch him “Okay, Wash! No, I haven’t been sleeping enough! Congrats! You got me to admit it. Now what?” Her electric green eyes could pierce through rock. Thankfully, though,not his visor. “I can’t sleep. I won’t sleep. We’re responsible for all these people’s lives, and every minute not optimizing what we need to do here is a minute _wasted_ . Not all of us have time to play board games all day and _go for walks!!”_

          “That’s not fair, and you know it.” She looks away, and makes to storm off. “Carolina,” Wash pleads, grabbing her arm. “You can’t keep running on empty! You’re going to make mistakes… you’re going to fall apart if you do.”

          “I can’t! I can’t stop, Wash!” She jerks her arm away, won’t look at him. “I can’t stop.”

          He just watches, dejected, as she shoves him out of her way and leaves.

          Just great. 

          Carolina is burning out, Kimball too probably, the Reds are gonna be stationed alone with some backstabbing mercs in the middle of nowhere, Over half of blue team is- out of commission, Doc unstable… The only thing really going well at all was how Sarge had taken all the lieutenants under his wing, training them and drilling them just as well as Wash ever had, but If they don’t get their shit together before shipping out again, then Wash can’t see this ending well.

          And his eye still fucking _stings_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of a boring one... tactical shit and all that. lol. have some freelancer angst


	5. Chapter 5

          “Run it again.”

          Tucker sputters. “W-What? No! C’mon!! I totally got it that time!” Tucker gestures frantically at the soldier splayed out in front of him. “Look! He’s on the ground!”

          “You’re favoring your left side, and you’re posture is sloppy, Maggot. Run. It. Again.”

          There was no way around it.

          Elizabeth Hawley was a bitch.

          The past two weeks have been miserable for Tucker, and his new drill sergeant has about 90% to do with it. The other 10% being, of course, due to the perpetual worry for his friends planet-side, and Junior, thousands of light years away. The woman was 6 feet tall of terrifying in every way. Her silver hair, always pulled back into a tight bun, never a single hair out of place, and the lines on her face betrayed her age, but if she was as old as those features indicated, then her body hadn’t gotten the memo: Tucker never thought he would see a woman more buff than Carolina, but the amazon bringing pain and misery down on him day after day dashed that prediction into the ground, and then rubbed it’s face into it for good measure.

          Currently the she-devil is making Tucker practice disarming techniques. And Tucker doesn't think it's going particularly well. He's already exhausted and sore from drills earlier that afternoon, bruises peppering his arms and legs and chest from previous practice fights, and every time he successfully executes a move on one of the soldiers sparring with him, she makes him do it an extra bazillion times until she's satisfied.

          At least this sparring partner wasn’t too bad, Tucker musea. He'd had a couple with friends in the morgue, dead from plasma burns running through their chests. Hawley doesn't do much to dissuade them from taking out their anger on the Sim Trooper. Her training is probably the only thing that kept him from dying in these practice matches, and he still had a lot of bruises to show for it.

          Tucker doesn't want to admit that he is becoming more adept under her tutelage, but he's definitely stronger and faster than he’d ever been in his life…. Even after Washington’s brutal regimen in the canyon. And Wash had never taken the time to take them all aside and actually teach them any freelancer moves. Just… Leg day. Everyday.

          Here it's more like... Everything day, everyday. 

          Tucker misses leg day.

          When Hawley finally nods at his flawless disarming maneuver and dismisses him, he’s led out of the training room by guards and back to his room.

          Well.

          More like a cell. There’s a cot, a small table, and a toilet and shower behind a curtain in one corner. there’s also something that’s Tucker identified as ‘definitely a security camera’ posing as some kind of wall trim decoration. Which sucks for Tucker.

          He’s all about giving people a show, but these fucks don’t deserve it. Not that he's been feeling up for  _that_ lately.

_ <Ugh dude, really? I’m still in here.>_

          Tucker snorts. “You know you like it.” And creates some vivid mental imagery featuring some exaggerated parts of his anatomy and whipped cream.

          There's some sting behind it when Church bites back. _ <God I hate you.>_

          Hahah.

          ...

          huh. 

          Tucker strips down out of his gray sweatpants and t-shirt as fast as possible, suddenly uncomfortable, and hops in the shower. He blasts the water as hot as it’ll go (which is not very hot at all), and starts cleaning the sweat from his body. The ache of sore muscles never really leaves, but under the warm water he can forget about it for a while. He zones out until the timer cuts his water, and he startles back to wakefulness.

          When he gets out there’s dinner on the table, and fresh clothes on the bed. It freaks him out every time; he never hears the door open or people come in, and the shower isn’t that loud.

          Tucker dries off, gets dressed, and sits on the cot. Picks at his meal. Some kind of hyper-nutritious gruel. The same kind they had in basic, and then immediately ran out of in Blood Gulch. Chorus wasn’t rich, but it had mostly been civilian before the civil war, not a lot of processed military rations, and Tucker had gotten used to real food. This shit is gross.

          The only real food on his plate… is some orange slices. Tucker guessed that that was Hargrove’s idea of a joke. He eats them anyway, after the gruel. Ignores how they still make his lips burn and mouth tingle a little, but they taste good. Fuck you, Hargrove.

          Tucker stretches, cracks his joints and lays down.

          Training, training, training. They tell him his first mission will be at the end of the week, and the amount of prep for it has been ridiculous, but Tucker still has no idea what it is he’ll be doing other than that it will involve “stealth”. Fuck that. The moment Tucker sees one of Kimball’s people he’s gonna hail them down, get Grey to pry the metal out of his head, and send a warning to Junior.

_ <Tucker, you’ve still got that brain taser. It’s not going to be that easy.> _

          Tucker wishes the shower were back on so he could speak aloud without being picked up by whatever bugs are in the room, but just tries to convey his frustration instead. Talking within your head is a lot more difficult than you would think. It’s more like…. feelings. All very abstract. And Church seems to pick up everything.

_ <I know, but we’ve gotta play this right. We wanna get out of this alive, at least, I know I do.> _

          Hah. That’s a first. Self-sacrificing asshole.

          Tucker can feel Church give him some kind of glare, without actually appearing. Or.. he projects the idea of a glare. Whatever.

_ <Oh. Oh, that’s rich. Who exactly had to stay behind of blow up that cruiser, huh? Use up all their suit’s power reserves playing the hero? Because I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me Tucker.> _ Church sounds like he’s trying to stifle a laugh.

          Tucker doesn’t want to hear it. He practices making his mind go blank and ignores Church’s weird roiling emotions. He was never good at meditation, but it’s the only way Tucker can get the AI to shut up now that they’re sharing the same headspace. He gets weird flashes of the other pieces of Church… Delta, Theta, Omega… reaching out to him. But he pushes them away and ignores them easily.

          Church gets his attention immediately after that by forcing some kind of headache on him.

          “What the fuck dude!?” Tucker’s attention snaps back to the room.

_ <I’m sorry. Okay? You’re right.> _ Church sounds worried. _ <I’m just feeling goddamn useless in here, and all I can do is make sure you don’t do anything stupid.> _

          “Whatever.” Tucker no longer cares about any audio bugs, he’s still irked. “Just, you figure out what to do. I’m going to bed.”

          It takes him a long time to go to sleep. He dreams about colorful hands turning his face in different directions, showing him his friends fading in and out of a white fog. Tucker runs to catch them, but they all disappear before he can get near. Wash’s voice echoes all around, mocking.

_“Can’t run fast enough? You shouldn’t have skipped leg day.”_

 

* * *

 

          The next day, guards escort Tucker to the training room, as usual. What’s not usual is what’s waiting there to meet him.

          The meta’s helmet stares at him from a table, the rest of the suit around it. Church radiates excitement, or anxiety. Something that's making Tucker's heart beat a little faster than he wants it to.

          “Welcome, maggot.” Hawley says from the other side of the table, in a full set of armor of her own. Tucker doesn't think she's used his actual name once. “Suit up. Timetable's been moved up: your mission begins tomorrow, and it’s up to me to make sure you don’t fuck it up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda wanted this one to be longer, but I 'm not gonna stuff more padding into this than I already have hahah.


	6. Chapter 6

          There aren’t a lot of things to do when your rather extensive squad of friends- well, maybe not friends. Acquaintances? -When a large group of people you hang out with, but don’t necessarily like, shrinks down to include yourself, a dumbass, an asshole, a dumbass who’s other personality is an asshole, a scary doctor lady, and your kinda-sorta boss.

          Grif is starting to think he should have tagged along with Wash and Carolina, or, god forbid, even Donut and Sarge and the Lieutenants when they left for their posts out in the middle of nowhere, but Simmons had begged for Grif not to leave him alone with Caboose and Doc and _girls_. Simmons would never admit that he’d been begging, but he had totally been begging; making that totally petrified face right at Grif, and Grif had rolled his eyes and said to Kimball he was staying as well. Big mistake. Simmons was always busy doing stuff for the General, Caboose was still practically mute (and even worse now, since Wash and Andersmith left), and Grif wouldn’t willingly hang out with the doctors even if they threw a banquet for him. With oreos. And pizza.

          It was boring here, and for once, lazing about with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company was incredibly unappealing. And causing him to snap out. A lot.

          Grif spends most of his time in the one place no one would ever expect to find him: the makeshift gym, which isn’t more than a repurposed garage with some training equipment. His logic is sound: If he can spend his time hating exercise and staying focused on internally complaining about every lift, every squat, every step on his run, then he can’t think about a teal suit of armor fizzling out to a cold, dead white and dropping to the ground like a sack of-

          Fuck.

          Another lift, another squat, another lap. After a few hours, Grif finds himself so tired, he can’t really think straight anyways. Hyper-aware of the sweat soaking through his shirt, the air burning his lungs, and the heat radiating off his face, it takes him a couple minutes after stopping to realize that he’s not the only unexpected occupant of the room.

          “Caboose!?” Grif startles out of his trance. “What the hell? You shouldn’t be- How long have you been here?!”

          Caboose… Doesn’t say anything. Typical. He’s sitting on a crate, holding a pair of crutches over his lap. His temporary prosthetic, a garish combination of green and blue and chrome clashes horribly with the flower print hospital gown whose frayed edges the man is playing nervously with.

          Grif downs the rest of his water bottle and frowns. Should he call Grey? As far as he knew, Caboose wasn’t cleared to leave the medical area. But Caboose had made it all the way here and he didn’t seem to be in any pain…

          “Grif…” Grif spills water on his face in surprise. “When… When are Wash and Smith and Carolina coming home? I think they forgot me.”

          Oh fuck no. Grif is not prepared to handle this. He gets ready to bolt and get one of the doctors when Caboose notices him gathering up his stuff and hobbles over to block the doorway with his hulking frame, faster than anyone with a poorly fitted, new, fake leg should be able to. For an idiot, Caboose is scary perceptive when he wants to be.

          “Let me through, Caboose.” Grif does his best to sound stern.

          “No. I don’t think I’m gonna do that.” The tips of Caboose’s crutches are braced against the corners of the doorframe, Grif can’t get through without shoving Caboose over, and he’s not interested in being the guy who bullied the crippled man-child.

          “This is all stupid Tucker’s fault, again. You know?” Caboose is looking right at Grif, his eyes are red and puffy, but his stare is steady and focused. Not betraying any nervousness like his hands are. “Yup, he uh. Stole my best friend. Even though he saved the planet. And you. And me. Well, I guess you’re the one who saved me, so, uh, thank you? He still stole Church though, and now my friends are out looking for them, and they left me all alone. So, uh, _yeeeaaah_ I’m pretty mad at him, but uh. Maybe. Maybe not as mad as I could be?”

          Grif is shocked out of trying to figure how to get past. This is the most the blue soldier has spoken in weeks. “Uh, yeah. Sure, Caboose.”

          “Because. I think. I think Tucker was my friend too. Even if he was dumb. And mean. He, uh, kept us from blowing up? So he must have thought I was his friend too. Right? And you. Even though you are a Red...”

          Grif sighs. Of course. Caboose feels guilty. ”I’m sure Tucker saw you as a friend too, Caboose.”

          “And you?”

          Grif thinks of hot days in a box canyon. Cracking inappropriate jokes and complaining about commanding officers. Making eye contact (through helmets) and rolling their eyes (through helmets) at one of the other’s crazy. Half-assedly firing guns at each other that didn’t even shoot real bullets.

          “Yeah, sure.”

          -Zooming away as an enemy soldier winds up to kick Tucker’s head...

          Some friend he turned out to be. Fuck.

          “Oh good! I‘m very glad you think so!” Caboose smiles a tired smile. “Because I think Tucker wouldn’t like it very much if he knew you were being so mad all the time.”

          Grif freezes.

          “Who the fuck says I’m mad?”

          Caboose backs up a step. “Oh, you know! _People…_ ”

          “Well maybe _people_ should mind their own business! Let me through, Caboose. Go find Dr. Grey.”

          “It’s lonely in the hospital. Even though Doctor Grape is very nice to me. Would you uh, want to play connect four with me?”

          “No, I don’t! Fuck off blue!.” 

          “Oh. Okay.” Caboose backs out finally, and Grif pushes past him, disappearing around a corner down the hall, leaving a large, lonely figure looking after him.

         Caboose kicks at the ground, scuffing the floor with his fake foot.

         "Okay..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one. Caboose is really hard to write. Don't worry though I've got almost three more chapters basically done, and they are definitely not short, ahaha...


	7. Chapter 7

          Tucker’s heart is running a mile a minute as he drops. He never thought he was scared of heights, but he’s under the impression that anyone would change their mind when the ground is rushing up to meet them. When he lands, he rolls ungracefully, and comes to a stop with his face on the ground and his ass in the air. He can practically hear Hawley smack her palm to her forehead. Whatever. Bitch taught him how to fight _people_ , not gravity.

          As he slowly makes his way back onto his feet amidst a sea of purple grass, Tucker can barely hear the sound of the shuttle that he was pushed out of make it way back to the _Staff of Charon._ He looks up and catches it’s tail end zoom out of sight. It had definitely felt like it had been a lot higher up when he was peeking out of the airlock. Not that he had had much time to admire the view before someone told him this was his stop and their boot was on his ass and suddenly he was falling the 50 meters to the ground. Thank god for power armor.

          Tucker wipes the last bit of dirt off his visor and steps out of his crater into the wall of plants. Fuck the mission, time to find the United Army of Chorus.

          <Alright, it looks like we’ve got to head a bit North-West for about three kilometers, and then go West for another nine kilometers.>

          Tucker feels kind of surprised. “I mean, I’m not complaining about any extra time away from those dickbags, but why drop me off so far away?”

          <Well, not that I know what ‘those dickbags’ are planning, but I would assume they don’t want the natives to notice the scary, shiny, white dude they dropped off on their doorstep.>

          “I’m not _white_!”

_ <The suit idiot.> _

          Tucker focuses on said shiny, white ceramic covering his hands as they part the purple stalks. “Yeah I was wondering about that… Can you get the camo stuff and make me aqua again? This feels... wrong.”

_ <Sorry Tucker, they only left in the invisibility for the camo unit.> _

          Goddamn it.

          It takes a few hours, Church navigating Tucker around mines and other traps, but the grasses begin to get shorter and eventually Tucker can make out the tractor beam tower and shorter buildings surrounding it in the distance. The beam itself is a weird yellowish color, emanating from the tip of the ominous, alien building straight up into the sky, where it then spreads like an aurora in the direction from which he just came. Somewhere in the back of Tucker’s mind, he can’t help but think that can’t be good for the ozone layer.

_ <Chorus’s ozone layer has four times the amount of O3 than Earth, everything’s fine.> _

          Tucker jumps. “Quit mind-reading dude, it’s fucking creepy!”

_ <Well stop thinking such stupid shit! I’m a goddamn computer, the best I can do is google the answers to your dumb questions for you.> _

          “Okay, first of all, no one has used the word ‘google’ in like, four hundred years, second, there’s no internet out here, so you’re just a nerd for knowing that in the first place, thir-”

_ <Shut up!> _ Church hisses. _ <Duck! Someone’s coming!> _

          “What?” Tucker dips below the grass. “Where?”

_ <On your 3!> _

          Tucker turns to the right and immediately starts to move. The taser in his head starts to buzz warningly.

_ <What!? What the fuck are you doing? I said on your 3! That doesn’t mean go to 3!> _ Church screeches in his ear.

          “Church, the only people out here would be on Kimball’s army. They can help us!” Tucker twitches as a small jolt runs down his spine and through his limbs, making his fingertips and toes feel like they’re burning.

_ <Not if you scare the shit out of-> _

          “HOLY FUCK.”

          Tucker is face to face with three mercs in black. The pain stops.

          “What the fuck are they doing here!?” He shouts.

          Church doesn’t get a chance to answer before guns are in their face. Tucker dives to the left where the grass is denser again. Bullets follow.

          Church overlays Tucker’s HUD with infrared as he moves around through the field, and suddenly the grasses are non-existent. A glance back reveals the Mercs searching furiously for him, but not in the right direction.

          _< Take them out!>_ Church shouts.

          Tucker doesn’t need to be told twice.

          He circles around and launches himself at one of the mercs, wrapping his arms around her head and kneeing her in the back at the same time. She lands hard, helmet getting knocked off (her hair is the same color as Wash’s), and Tucker can feel the pirate’s armor crack under his knee. She’s not going to be getting up anytime soon.

          The other two whip around and begin shooting at him without regard for their comrade. Church pulls up the force field and none of the bullets touch Tucker. The same can’t be said for the soldier on the ground,

          She is _definitely_ not getting up now.

          Tucker subconsciously reaches for invisibility and the pirates freak out as he disappears from view.

          Okay, maybe having Church read his mind wasn’t _all_ that bad.

          Tucker sidles around and grabs the arms of the merc on the right and rapidly turns him to face his partner. The merc accidentally gets his partner in the shoulder and in the helmet before letting go of the trigger. The other pirate does not take kindly to this and shoots right back, dropping the soldier in two shots and then going right for Tucker as he becomes visible once more.

          Tucker blocks his face with his gauntlets, and runs at the final pirate, tackling him to the ground. He punches him in the face once, twice, three times, and the guy is out cold. Pulling back his fist reveals a crack in the visor, and something dark and terrible whispers at Tucker to keep hitting until the glass is powder. He suppresses the thought and stands up.

          He’s breathing hard. But he’s barely broken a sweat. It hits him all of a sudden that he took down _three_ of Felix and Locus’s henchmen, all by himself. Without even a weapon.

_ <Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re hot shit. I think you’re forgetting something though.> _ Church’s sprite appears over the third pirate, staring down at them. “What the hell are these guys doing here?”

          “Beats me.” Tucker can’t look away from the cracked face-plate. “I figured all the pirates would have scrammed the moment the gruesome twosome split.”

          “Yeah. Maybe they were just a random splinter group. There might be more; grab a gun, and let’s get moving.”

          *click*

          “Y-You’re… you’re not get-getting anywhere near that t-tower… heh...”

          Tucker and Church both whip around. The first pirate, the one who’s helmet got knocked off, is not as dead as Tucker thought. Which was ‘pretty dead’ considering this chick literally has a hole in her head and several in her neck leaking blood and who-knows-what-else onto the ground. She’s holding up her fist. No wait, not her fist-

          “See y-you in hell.” She chokes out.

          Tucker jumps back right as the grenade explodes. Church covers him in glowing yellow hexagons, and though the force blows Tucker back something like ten meters and he lands hard on his back, as the smoke clears he finds that he’s not really hurt.

          The new crater in the field dashes his hopes of grabbing a weapon. All the rifles that the patrol had been in possession of lay scattered in bent and broken pieces.

          The patrol itself doesn’t look much different.

          Church appears again with his arms crossed in annoyance. “Well that’s just _great_.”

          Tucker gets up. He really hopes the number of times he’s found himself on the ground so far isn’t some kind of sign of how things are going to go from here on out. Something dawns on him at that moment.

          “Wait,” He turns to Church. “She mentioned the tower? Are the _pirates_ the ones operating the tractor beam?”

          Church tilts his head thoughtfully. “I mean, it’s possible? They do know the tech…”

          “Well! Isn’t that just fucking great!” Tucker kicks at a scorched _something_ that might have been someone’s foot once. “How the fuck are we supposed to get help? We can’t exactly radio Wash or Carolina or Kimball to come pick us up!”

“Well…” Church, looks to the tractor beam. _“_ We could leave a message. Let them know you’re alive at least. They’ll come investigate when this tower gets knocked out, I’m sure.”

          This gets Tucker’s attention. His spine begins to tingle as he processes what Church is saying.

_“_ Look, I think at this point, it’s obvious we’re going to have to keep going through with what Hargrove’s wants if you don’t want to be constantly electrocuted.” Church turns back to face Tucker. “Things aren’t gonna go the way we hoped, so let’s prep for the next time. When I upload the virus to the tower systems, I’ll leave a message in there too. ”

          Tucker raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a block or something?”

          “I do. But it’s nothing I can’t get past. I just have to encrypt it a certain way.” Church exudes smugness. “Charon’s techies had no idea what they were dealing with when they were messing with me.”

          Part of Tucker wants to rib Church for his cockiness, but a bigger part is just overwhelmed with relief. The tingling in his spine turns red hot as he fantasizes about the Reds and Blues coming to his rescue, and for a moment Tucker can’t think of anything other than his desire to drop to the ground and curl up into a ball. His back feels just like right after O’Malley hit him with that rocket all those years ago.

_ <HEY. Snap out of it! Let’s go!> _

          And just like that, the pain stops. Time to get moving.

          Tucker steps through the grass, following the yellow light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always please feel free to point out any and all typos! Because I only read this chapter over twice, and one of those times I was drunk.
> 
> I can't wait to post the next chapter, I really loved writing it and I hope y'all will love reading it. :D


	8. Chapter 8

           Wash can’t pretend that he’s exactly _comfortable_ with the idea of being surrounded by pirate scum 24/7, but it was definitely an improvement to be in a place large enough to accommodate the amount of people inhabiting it. True to his prediction, the black-armored soldiers followed his and Carolina’s lead. In fact, with the exception of a handful of the Tartarus criminals, they were better at taking orders than blue team, or the federal soldiers, ever were. Wash doesn’t know how to feel about that.

           They’re professionals all right. Or maybe Kimball had just put the fear of… well, Kimball in them.

           At the moment Wash is tearing away on some jerky, watching over their two technicians keeping the tractor beam operational. It’s been a week and a half since he and Carolina arrived here in the smack dab middle of what the locals called the Alto Plains. The transition went relatively seamlessly: Wash had made the mistake of being upfront with the Reds about their chances of seeing each other again, and it had taken almost an hour for Donut to stop crying and release Carolina from a crushing hug, and Grif had just glared and stormed away, hissing about idiots and their martyr complexes.

           Wash didn’t say goodbye to Caboose. He couldn’t do it.

           He feels like maybe he understands now why Epsilon didn’t either, back at the crash site.

           Wash’s hears a beeping from the helmet under his arm and shoves the rest of the jerky in his mouth. Radio transmission from Carolina.

_“Squad six, reporting in.”_

           “Hey, C’rolina. whus’up?” Wash asks as he fiddles with the helmet seals, cheeks still stuffed with dried lizard-bird-whatever meat.

_“Sorry, were you eating?”_

           He swallows. “Not anymore.” Blegh. Too salty. “You know, it’s not exactly a squad if it’s just one person.”

_“I work better alone.”_

           “Yeah, alright. I still wish you’d stuck with squad five.”

_“All three of those quote, unquote ‘soldiers’ are murderous, backstabbing criminals who never stop bickering, and are bad at following orders. Why would I ever patrol with them?”_

           “Well, they didn’t check in. Again. Would be nice if _someone_ there was responsible.”

_“Not happening, just cut down their rations again. Maybe they’ll learn. Anyway, Is Rodruigez there?”_

           Wash looks over to one of their technicians. Rodriguez and Henessey had been over the moon with relief to see him and Carolina when they had first arrived with extra supplies. Their reactions to the extra man-power in black armor was not as positive. They, along with the other techies at the operational facilities, were responsible for trapping Hargrove’s fleet in the first place. Kimball was probably going to dress them in medals from head to toe when this was all over.

           “Yeah he’s here.”

_“Can you let him know the AA guns are on the fritz again?”_

           Wash groans. Ever since they arrived here, those turrets have been a thorn in their side. They’d been the only things damaged by Hargrove’s scouting party, and it had taken the entire squadron four days to get them back into working order. “What’s wrong with them this time?”

_“They’re pointing at the ground, I think the one of the couplings might have fallen out again.”_

           “Yeah, I’ll let him know.”

_“Squad six out.”_

           Wash rolls his eyes and pops his helmet back off. “Hey Rodriguez,” The man turns around, squinting through his red rimmed glasses. “Can you check to see if there’s power going to the Anti Aircraft Turrets? Carolina says they’re broken again.”

           Rodriguez checks over his console, “It looks like they’re powered up? We rigged an alarm to go off if that one coupling got loose again, it should be working fine, sir.”

           Wash frowns, “She said they were pointed at the ground again. Doesn’t that mean they’re not plugged in?”

           Rodriguez strokes his goatee. “Usually, yeah. It could be something mechanical… Or maybe something with the auto-targeti-”

 

_BOOOOMMM_

 

           The earth moves under Wash’s feet, making him drop his helmet and hold his hands to ground for balance. Rodriguez falls out of his chair and Henessey screams as the floor suddenly slopes at an angle, and Wash finds himself stumbling again as something heavy slams into his hip. The sounds of screeching metal and cracking cement fill the air. There are sparks shooting out of the computer terminals and smoke is coming in through cracks in the wall and around the door and there’s is definitely a fire _somewhere_.

           “What the hell was that!!!???” Wash shouts, trying to right himself..

           Henessey starts crying. “Rodriguez! Anthony!!! Fuck no!!!”

           Wash looks at the man he’d been speaking with just a second ago. He’s halfway under the wall, with a steel beam from the ceiling completely flattening his chest. His red glasses, dangling precariously from one ear, match the stream of blood staining the floor and draining away out of sight.

           Wash’s mind goes blank, then reboots into freelancer mode. He grabs a squirming Henessy and climbs up the tilted floor towards the door to the hallway. It’s jammed, but he yanks twice and it comes tumbling down.

           Wash shoves the technician up and out, “Go outside! Get out of here!” He shouts. He doesn’t know if she hears, but she scrambles away anyways into the hallway and is out of sight once Wash pulls himself up. He moves to radio Carolina but-

           Fuck! The helmet!!

           Wash looks back into the room, but he can’t see it anywhere, and the fire is starting to eat up something leaking out of one of the computers. The smoke is blue and stings his skin. Better get out of here. Fast. 

           Wash runs down the hall, towards the com-room, unlocking his rifle from his back. Hopefully, he can reach Carolina from there. He passes a window and takes a split second to glance outside. And immediately doubles his sprint. 

           He barely clears the hall as the missiles break through the glass and fly into the cafeteria before detonating. Wash can feel the wave of heat on his the back of his neck and barely manages to keep his footing as the floor shakes again and debris knocks onto his back. He rounds a corner and his heart nearly stops as he slams full bodied into one of the Pirates.

           “What the hell is going on?!” Wash demands, not even quite back on his feet yet.

           The Pirate points at the stairwell. “Some scary white motherfucker infiltrated the base! Lawrence, Nguyen, Bak and I found him hacking the security system from the engineer’s terminal, but he beat the shit out of us. I barely got away!” Another rumble as the AA guns hit the tractor beam. The pirate stumbles a bit and then looks back up at Wash. “The guy didn't even have a gun!!”

           White armor… Wash glares at the stairwell. Makes a stupid decision.

           He squeezes the Pirate’s shoulder. “Radio Carolina for me, tell her what's going on. Then go to the caf and see if you can find any survivors.”

           “Yes, sir!”

           Wash darts into the stairwell, taking the steps four at a time. As he descends he can hear alarms… The ones for the upper levels must have been damaged in the initial hit if they weren't going off too… Or they'd been disabled.

           The basement is filled with thick smoke, and Wash wishes once again he had his helmet. When he reaches the underground hallway, he can barely see. The smoke makes his eyes burn, and his tears dislodge the bit of dirt under his eyelid that he'd never been able to get out, irritating it further, and the florescent lights keep flickering.

           Wash can feel a memory tugging at the edge of his consciousness as he ventures further into the blurry, winding corridor.

 

_Alarms unfiltered by a helmet, a structure under siege, smoke making it hard to breathe… To see…_

 

           Wash trips over something in the gray, and hits the floor hard. It's a body, the head at an unnatural angle. Black armor. Pirate. He shouldn't feel upset but…

 

_He falls to the floor as the ship lurches once more. He looks up and is face to face with a nameless guard in grey. They're not breathing. Wash’s head is spinning..._

 

           Wash crawls to the forward on his hands and knees, the air is slightly clearer here, and he can't deny himself respite from the choking fumes. He makes it down the hall and around a corner and pauses for a second to catch his breath as best he can…

 

_Wash kneels in the hall, cradling his throbbing head, images of a woman flash through his mind, bringing him more tears than the pain. He's not even sure of his own name right now, all he can think of is hers. Her hair, her smile, her love…_

 

           Wash can barely make out another body on the ground up ahead. The helmet! Of course! He scrambles over fast as he can and tries not to waste energy berating himself on how stupid he was not to grab one earlier. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

 

             _Stupid of him to let her go. He should have known. He should have stopped her. She’d failed at everything important to her. She always failed- stupid, stupid-_

_What was that?_

 

           His fingers feel around the dead soldier’s neck for the seals when-

 

_Maine?_

_Wash comes back to himself. Remembers York, and South, and Wyoming, and Connie. Remembers David._

_Wash reaches out for his partner, for his friend. The gold dome turns and faces him._

 

           Maine reaches back.

 

_“Help me” Wash gasps._

_But Maine does not help him._

 

           Carolina does.

           “GET AWAY FROM HIM!!!”

           As a teal blur zooms past him and slams full bodied into Maine- _not Maine, not anymore-_ Wash’s addled mind decides it's had enough.

           He passes out.

 

* * *

  

           Carolina's out pretty far in the fields, so by the time she hears the explosion, it's already happened. At first, she's shocked into stillness. No one had reported any movement of Hargroves fighters, so even with their AA weaponry having issues, they couldn't be making a bombing run now.

           Caroline's mind flashes to something their old freelancer pilot had once said. “ _They're probably not looking straight up._ ”

           She glances upwards, as if expecting a ship to be dropping out of the sky, but the next explosion voids that thought. And the smoke trails of the missiles lead directly back to their own  AA guns.

           Sabotage.

           She tries to radio Wash again, but all she gets is static, and her heart plummets into her stomach. No… Not Wash too... she can't lose another friend, she can't.

           Losing Tucker was hard.

           Losing Epsilon was heart-shattering.

           Losing Wash would break her, and she doesn't think she could ever pick up the pieces again.

           Carolina pulls herself together, if the towers fall, then all her friends… Sarge, Caboose, the others... The rest of her family… None of it will matter.

           Epsilon isn't there to help her. It hurts to run the speed unit on her own but she has to, weathers the strain it puts on her every nerve to race across through the grassland. She needs to get back. Disable the guns. Locate the saboteur. Eliminate the threat.

           On the way she receives dozens of transmissions from the confused and scattered pirates under the freelancer’s command. No one has heard from Wash. Her responses are automatic, clinical, precise. Stay alert, help survivors, regroup in the far side of the base. Her instructions become so routine, she almost speaks over the only useful message in the sea of soldiers reporting in. 

           “ _Agent Carolina! Agent Washington is heading down to the engineering deck in basement C, We have an intruder!_ ” 

           Carolina veers towards the nearest emergency exit.  “Roger that, en route.”

           “ _You should hurry, that son of a bitch took out three men at once, I don't know how long he's gonna last!_ ”

           Shit.

           When she reaches C wing, Carolina slams into the door to come to a stop rather than wasting time decelerating, and yanks it open. It's clogged with smoke, but she sets her helmet to high-contrast vision and jumps down the staircase an entire floor at a time. She's winded by the time she gets to the basement floor, but she can't stop to take a breather, Wash could be in trouble this very moment.

           She jogs through the halls, opening every door and scanning every room for both her friend and their rat. After minutes of searching that feel painfully like hours, Carolina turns a corner to see a struggling Washington on the ground, and before him is…

           No.

           How dare they.

_How dare they._

           The man in the Hephaestus armor reaches forward for Wash and that does it.

           “GET AWAY FROM HIM!!!” Carolina screams, and launches herself at the soldier.

           The man is taken off guard by her attack, but the armor augmentations allow him to easily flip her off of him and shake off the tackle. Oddly, he doesn't attack, instead scrabbling at his helmet. Maybe it's leaking in smoke, Carolina does not waste the opportunity.

           She knees him in the stomach and drives her elbows into the back of his neck, then attempts to flip him on his back, but he lifts up his arms instead of holding them in to his chest like she expects, and twists her away. She screams in rage.

           “Tucker died in that suit!!”

           She punches. Blocked.

           “Maine died in that suit!!”

           She kicks. Blocked.

           “You're not gonna lay a hand on Wash!!!”

           Hargrove’s agent is well trained, she'll give him that. She isn't landing a single hit, and sprinting here with the speed unit is starting to take its toll.

           She remembers her gun, draws her pistol up, lightning quick, and fires five rounds right at the soldier's chest. Not a single one touches him, and as a pale, yellow shimmer flickers out over the surface of his body, Carolina realizes this isn't a fight she can win, not in her state, not while protecting a prone ally, not against this.

           Carolina’s bloodlust begins to fade. She needs to help her teammate.

           She throws everything she has into a feint and then a kick that sends the soldier reeling back through the next section of corridor. She punches through a panel in the wall, sparks sputtering harmlessly off of her armor, and the emergency door slams down between them, she and Wash safely on one side.

           Carolina spends a moment, panting, mind blank, as the soldier on the other side begins slamming on the barrier. She snaps out of her trance when the man actually begins to dent the metal. She picks up Wash as gently as she can, and runs to the next exit. Maybe She can't fight, but she can run.

           She can always run.

 

* * *

 

           Getting into the base was surprisingly easy. Tucker snuck across the open dirt road to a side door, completely invisible, with hardly any trouble. A single, black-armored pirate had stared a little longer than was comfortable at a small cloud of dust Tucker had accidentally kicked up, but didn’t come over to investigate. At the door, Tucker pried off a panel to the side, plugged in a cable that he pulled out from his gauntlet, and let Church hack the lock and disable security. Hargrove obviously didn’t trust the antagonistic AI with any kind of wireless capability.

           Now they’re inside and Church is still complaining about how slow and awful and demeaning it is to operate through a _wire_.

_ <...I mean, sure, we still use physical drives to hold data and such, but even that’s outdated with holographic storage, but interfacing? Do you have any idea how much faster it is to go wireless? No one uses cables these days unless you’ve got no other option! This is ridiculous!!> _

           “Oh my god, Church. Shut. Up.”

_ <No, I won’t, because this is stupid. Turn left up here, by the way.> _

           “I can read a fucking map!” Tucker snaps. Indeed he’s been following the map on his HUD more than he’s been listening to Church’s rambling. His mind is occupied by the fear of getting caught. Three soldiers in a far off field he can handle. He’s not too sure about a whole base full of them. Around every corner he expects to find a million sets of black-armor pointing guns at him, and this all turning out to be a cruel, convoluted way for Hargrove to kill him. But the directions are good, and Tucker has barely seen anyone since entering.

           The HUD points him down the stairs to the basement, and Tucker slinks into the stairwell behind a group of four soldiers, invisible, before the door closes. They turn down into a side room, and Tucker jogs forward till he sees the terminal they’re supposed to upload this virus to.

           “Alright finally… what do we do?”

           < _Okay so there’s a few levels to this. Take off that panel and if there’s an orange wire, yank it out…_ >

           Tucker follows Church’s instructions until the computer pulls up a holographic outlet. Tucker extends the cable from his wrist again and plugs it in.

            A task bar pops up, signaling the upload status of the virus.

           “So uh… You need me to write the message or something?” Tucker asks, feeling kind of useless.

           < _Sure, I can transcribe, just give me a minute here… Oh. Fuck._ > Tucker jumps as alarms start blaring. 

           “Church what the fuck!?” Tucker yells. “I thought we took care of this upstairs!”

           < _There’s a redundant security system Charon didn’t tell me about!!_ > Tucker can feel the AI’s irritation. _ <How was I supposed to know!?> _

           Tucker hears boots running up the hall. “Hurry it up!”

           “Hey! Who the hell are you!?”

           Fuuuuck.

           The four soldiers they followed in are now pointing their guns at him. Tucker’s kind of sick of this view of rifles. The cord retracts and Church confirms that the upload is finished.

 

           And then the ground shakes.

 

           Everyone stumbles, but Tucker takes the opportunity to activate the super speed and knock one of them down. “What the fuck was that!?”

           Church, sounding way too calm, says, < _I’m guessing that’s the virus taking over the anti-aircraft weaponry and destroying the facility with it._ >

           What!? Tucker freezes. He figured the bug was just going to wipe the data off of everything… taking the tractor beam out of commission, yeah, but not something that would be irreparable!

           Jesus, he didn’t _actually_ want Hargrove to get away.

           Two of the pirates bolt into the smoke that’s starting to fill the hall as he stands there, shocked. The third does his best to hit Tucker in the head with the butt of his rifle, but all it does is knock him out of his thoughts. Tucker punches and hits the guy twice, then kicks him into the wall, denting the metal a bit. He crumples to the ground.

           Tucker's not happy about the alarms, but now that he's not anxious about getting caught, he has to admit that the adrenaline feels good. He can feel Church enjoy it too, riding high in their shared headspace. He sets his sights on the two pirates making their escape. He grabs one of the rifles on the ground, and lines the shot. Takes out the one trailing behind. The fourth rounds the corner barely visible in the haze, and Tucker starts to storm after him.

                      Wait.

 

                                Wasn’t there something he wanted to do?

 

                                                                             Yes. He wants to kill that pirate.

 

           The ground rumbles again as the AA guns fire.

           No, wait…

           The message!

           He turns around and jogs back to the computer terminal, ignoring the pain in his head increasing to the point of making his eyes tear up, yanks the cable out again and jams it into the console. The screen displays an audio recording interface.

           Tucker clears his throat. “Hey guys… did you miss me? So me and Church, are kind of in a sticky spot and we need your help.” His breath hitches against his will. It’s not being face to face with his friends, but he’s gone weeks without them, and God. He misses them all. From Simmons’s dorky, lanky awkwardness, and Caboose’s incomprehensible rambling, to Wash’s stupid face.

           Tucker shakes his head. “Hargrove’s got… got some sort of brain bomb in me, and he’s got his crosshairs on Junior. He’s been making me and Church do some of his dirty work, and we need you to get us out.” He takes a deep breath. “This guy is seriously fucked. Please help.”

           He pulls up Church, who is weirdly quiet. “Church can you add pics of the diagrams that Hargrove showed us that first week?”

           <Yeah. Gimme a sec.>

           Tucker watches the screen intently and he sees Church pull his audio recording and multiple pictures into a folder at a speed too fast to follow. Sees the numbers and characters that mean nothing to him change and compress and flash across the screen. When the pain in his head becomes unbearable, he closes his eyes and focuses on the sounds of missiles and the feeling of the earth shaking beneath him, counting the seconds between blasts.

           Church can’t be the only one able to read his thoughts, he realizes. There’s nothing short of another AI that could turn up the brain pain every time he even thinks about doing something that Hargrove doesn’t want, and since he was dropped into that field this headache has just gotten worse and worse. Is there some techie, somewhere on the _Staff of Charon_ , reading his every thought?

           Not for the first time, Tucker feels like grabbing hold of the metal protruding from his neck and _pulling_ …

           < _Done. Let’s get out of here._ >

           Tucker turns and.

           There’s Washington on the ground.

           Tucker’s very first thought is that Wash looks like absolute shit. The man looks like he hasn’t slept once since the last time Tucker saw him, his hair is limp and messy, and one of his eyes is red. Not that Tucker can really tell all that well, since the man is squinting and looks completely unfocused and out of it. He’s saying something, but Tucker can’t hear.

           Christ, it's good to see him. If not puzzling.

           “Wash what the fuck!?” Tucker starts to move towards his teammate.  “Are you okay? What are you doing here? There’s pirat-”

           Tucker is knocked back by an enormous force out of nowhere. He sees a familiar cyan, and against his better judgement, relaxes.

           “Carolina! It’s me! It’s Tucker!” The woman shifts into a fighting stance. “Hey! Are you listening!?”

           <Tucker, you’re suit doesn’t have an external speaker!>

           “What!?”

           Tucker tries to wrestle off his helmet, but it’s locked tight. Carolina wastes no time in attacking. She knees him in the gut, and suddenly, Hawley’s training kicks in. Tucker knows this move. He pushes away the freelancer’s arms and has to repress the muscle memory that’s telling him the kick her in the back.

           She lets out a frustrated yell and starts going at him for real. Tucker is starting to get scared. He doesn’t know how to communicate with Carolina and he also knows she won’t hesitate to kill him if he stops defending himself. It’s also getting harder and harder not to fight back. He’s blocking everything she’s got, but it’s difficult to resist Hawley’s repetitive training with counter attacking.

           “Tucker died in that suit!!”

           “No!!” Tucker pleads. “I’m right here!!!”

           “Maine died in that suit!!”

           “Carolina, _please_!!!”

           “You're not gonna lay a hand on Wash!!!”

           Right before he snaps and delivers a kick back, Carolina backs away and begins shooting at him. None of the shots make contact, thanks to Church and… wait! Church! She could see Church!

           “Church!! Turn on your holog-” Tucker loses the air in his lungs as Carolina kicks him a good three meters down the hall. As Tucker looks up, he sees a flash of Aqua, before a large, steel barrier slams down between them.

           “FUCK!! NO!” Tucker scrambles to his feet, looking at the wall for a control panel, finding nothing. He starts banging on the door.

           “CAROLINA!!! IT’S ME, IT’S TUCKER!!! CAROLINA! WASH!!”

            < _Don’t waste your breath. They can’t hear you._ >

           Tucker punches the wall one more time with all his might. It dents a little. “Where the fuck were you!? She would have stopped if you’d shown yourself!”

           < _There’s a block on the hologram, Tucker, I can’t bring it up around ‘unauthorized personnel’._ >

           “Well that’s… That’s fucking great. Fuck. FUCK!” Tucker kicks the door again. “Did you at least upload the damn message!?” 

           < _Yeah, Tucker. I did_. > Church says. < _You need to calm down. The guys’ll come through for us, okay?_ >

            “Forgive me for not sharing your positivity.” Tucker groans. “Oh my god, when did I become more of a downer than _you_?”

           < _Ha ha. Very funny._ > The building rumbles as the tower takes another hit. < _Let’s get out of here, the place is coming down soon._ >

  

           Two hours and ten kilometers later, as Tucker climbs up the ladder to the pick-up shuttle, fuming, he takes a long look at the sky.

           It’s a regular blue. Not a speck of yellow. The ozone is safe, at least.

 

           It doesn’t make Tucker feel any better.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope the same scene from three different perspectives isn't too redundant, hahah! I had a real fun time with this.
> 
> Also rodriguez and henessey are names of tech people i know in real life i hope they never find this hhahahahah.....


	9. Chapter 9

           He's fuming all the way back to his cell. Tucker knows there's nothing more he could have done. He _knows it._ But he can't let go of the rage simmering under the surface. They were so fucking _close_.

          Even the guards escorting him notice his foul mood, and they stay a few feet behind, giving each other worried and nervous looks. As if Tucker’s going to bolt or do something crazy. Ha! Like he can do anything right now; they stripped him of the Meta's armor on the shuttle.

          Tucker wishes relentlessly that he knew how they were able to get it off so quickly. Was there a key? A password he could steal? But he hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary and they'd fiddled with the seals just like with any other armor until the pieces came apart while he bit back tears. “Frustrating” didn't even come close.

          They arrive at his cell. Tucker steps in.

          The doors shut.

          The room is plain. White. Sterile. Claustrophobic.

          Tucker wants to break something; he grabs the chair at his desk so hard he can start to see the bones of his knuckles through his skin and tries to breathe in through his mouth and out through his nose. Tries to empty his mind like how Donut taught him when they were stationed in the desert together... But it's not working. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears, and his eyeballs feel hot.

          The dark glass circle in the wall that was definitely a camera-pretending-not-to-be-a-camera catches his eye, and Tucker sees _red._ He moves to hurl the chair at the offending ornament, but it just jerks back and clatters to the floor, held back by the chain that keeps it near the desk. Tucker screams through his clenched teeth and storms over.

 _It doesn't matter that he's burnt out,_ that he's hungry and tired, that there's nothing covering his hands what with the gloves of the armor gone.

          He puts his fist through the glass like Hargrove's face is on the other side.

          The glass tears through the skin and he can feel the way the metal underneath has worked its way into the flesh when his mind clears and the pain takes over. He reflexively tries to jerk it out again but, Jesus, he really got something jammed in there because something is not letting go of his knuckles and every little movement irritates and sends a fresh jolt up his arm. Trapped against the wall, with pain grounding him, Tucker’s breath gradually slows and his heart rate gets back to something normal.

          Church’s hologram appears, hands on his hips, looking into the hole into which Tucker's arm disappears. “Nice going. I thought you wanted _less_ metal stuck in your body?”

          Tucker leans his head against the wall and just groans.

          Church tilts his head like he's thinking. Peeks into the wall again. Tucker can feel the gears of the AI’s mind start to grind.

          “Don't hate me for this.” Church says slowly after a moment, in a tone of voice that Tucker can't quite read. “I have an idea… There's a cable about a foot deeper into the wall. Tucker, you need to grab that cable and pull it out. As much of it as you can.”

          Tucker huffs in laughter. “Dude, I don't think I can pull my hand out. Let alone shove it in further-”

          “Don't say it-”

          “-Bow chicka bow wow.”

          “Ugh, just do it.”

          Tucker glares at the little avatar. “Dude I'm serious I don't think I can-”

          Church blinks out, and reappears right near his face. Tucker knows he has no eyes, but it feels like that visor is staring right into his.

          A shard of glass digs deeper into the heel of Tucker’s hand as he jerks, startled a bit at the proximity.

          “Tucker.” Church says, quietly, and dead serious. “Do you trust me?”

          Tucker sputters. “What kind of question is tha-”

          “Tucker! _Do you trust me?_ ”

          Shit there was. Like. _Gravity_ to that tone. How did Tucker always end up with these drama queens?

          He replies. “Yeah, Church. Yeah, I trust you.”

          Church blinks out and Tucker can feel the start of a plan leak into his head.

          < _Then do exactly what I say._ >

 

* * *

 

          Three minutes later, the medical technicians finally burst into the room, and start working at pulling his arm none-too-gently out of the hole in the wall.

          “Careful! I need that hand!” Tucker nags as another shard of glass tears through his skin. “I need it for very important bodily functions!”

          One of the medics just gives him a Look while the other tersely tells him to shut up and yanks the rest of his arm out of the wall. It's… Pretty gross. His hand stays clenched shut, putting all the bloody outer damage on display.

          The cuts from the glass shards are pretty deep, but those are mostly clean, straight lines. The rest does not look nearly as good: there are parts of his hand where metal from the internal components of the camera not only shredded the skin, but there's some port in between Tucker's second and third knuckle that's jammed in there way deeper than anything should go. Have you ever felt metal scrape against bone?

          It fucking hurts, to say the least.

          They sit him down on his bed and tweeze out the shards of glass one by one, while one of the soldiers standing guard walks over to the hole and starts to install a panel over it with an electric screwdriver. When all the glass is collected in a bloody pile in a tray on the desk, the medics wrench out the metal out from between his bones, without much regard for whether it was causing further damage.

          “What the fuck are you doing? Big help I'll be to your boss if you fuck me up!” Tucker glares, shaking his hand out of their grip.  “Then he'll get rid of me and stick the scary AI in your head instead!”

          “Shut up. Open your hand.”

          “Yeah, I don’t fucking think so.”

          The nearest medic glares suspiciously. “Open. Your. Hand.” She growls and snatches his hand back, prying open Tucker's fingers (Ouch!) to reveal… two more glass shards. She tweezers them out and the other medic mixes together a green paste and fills the wounds with it. It feels…. Weird. Like biofoam, but colder.

          “Don't touch that and don't let it get wet for the next six hours.” The second medic says. “Your hand will be fine in a few days.”

          Tucker glares suspiciously at them as they leave. The guard finishes his handiwork and comes over to pat him down.

          “Ooh getting handsy are we? It's okay bud, I know, I'm practically irresistible.” The guard's hand stills over Tucker's arm, and he pulls out the large, deadly looking glass shard Tucker had hidden up his sleeve.

          “Nice try.” He says, and Tucker makes a frustrated face. “Maybe if you stuck it up your ass next time, I'll let you keep it.”

          “Oh ho ho, you'd like that wouldn't you? You kinky fucker?” Tucker spits back. The guard slaps him across the face.

          Yup. Kinky.

          “Don't pull this shit again.” And he gathers up his tools and they all leave once again.

          Tucker flops down on the bed. Grinning. Though his face smarts a bit from the hit.

          < _Wow. That went much smoother than I expected. You know_. > Church sneers. < _Once you stopped acting like a baby._ >

          “Dude!!” Tucker hisses. “That fucking hurt!”

          < _Does it hurt more, or less than how much it’ll hurt running into one of the guys again and not being able to do anything about it? > Church points out. <Punching through a wall twice will be nothing in the long run. Nice touch there, by the way, with the glass shiv._>

          Tucker chuckles. He had pulled that all the time as a kid. A ‘ _Classic misdirection_ ’, as Sarge would say. Tucker would always try to sneak his Aunt’s tablet into his room at night to play video games, and always got caught. What Ruth Tucker never caught on to was that the obvious way he tried to hide the tablet distracted from the not-as-obvious-but-still-kind-of-visible way his handheld gaming console bulged in his pocket.

          “Still wish it hadn’t ruined my hand.” He lifts it up to examine it and smirks. “I’m a lefty, you know... I was hoping with the camera gone I could finally have some ‘me’ time-”

          < _Ugh, stop right there. No_. >

          “Aw, what a bummer.”

          < _Oh my god, your organic bullshit is seriously the worst. I’m out. Good night_. >

          “Night, Church.”

          It feels good to have a plan. A real plan.

          The smile doesn't leave Tucker’s face as he feels around with his good hand under his head for the two feet of cable he pilfered from the wall, stuffed inside his pillowcase.

 

* * *

 

 

          < _Wake up._ >

         Nooooooo... five more minutes.

         < _Absolutely not. Get up._ >

          “Mmmmnnn… What time is it..?”

          < _It’s 3 in the morning; time to get going. I already gave you an extra hour to sleep._ >

          “Wow... Thanks.”

          Tucker throws off his covers and swings his bare feet to the cold ground. Church’s hologram appears, sitting on the end of the bed, back leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

          “How’s your hand?” He asks.

          Tucker looks blearily at his left hand. It feels a little bit hot, but the green foam had hardened, and the immediate areas around his wounds felt numb. Tucker pokes it. “Whatever that weird stuff was, it’s working.”

          Church gets up. “Alright, good. You ready?”

          Tucker stretches, cracks his spine, and pulls the cable off the bed. “Alright, how’s this going?”

          Church goes over the plan again.

          Tucker walks over to the shower and pries off the handle. It comes off fairly easily, and he brings it back over to the door. He jams one of the edges into a screw on the door panel, and after some swearing and sweating and stripped screw heads, he gets the metal plate off and can see inside: Chips and wires. Lots of chips and wires. Tucker can feel Church’s excitement.

          Church carefully directs Tucker in peeling back the plastic casing off the stolen cable with his fingernails, and then peeling off the plastic around the wires inside _that_. Then twisting the metal ends housed inside around wires in the panel. It takes a few minutes, but with Church pointing out exactly what parts to avoid and what to grab, the jerry-rigged engineering job gets set up without a hitch.

          < _Now comes the tricky part._ > Church says, hovering over the other end of the cable. It has a small, four pronged jack on the end. _Almost_ the shape of the helmet-compatible port in the back of Tucker’s head, but not quite. Tucker peels back the plastic, finds the correct wire, steels himself, and bites through it. The metal feels _awful_ against his teeth, but he gets through quick enough, and the fourth prong is easily worked out.

          Tucker stands up and feels around for the port in the back of his head. “You ready Church?” He whispers, low enough that the bugs in the room can't pick it up.

          < _Oh, I was made ready._ >

          “Weird way to put it, but alright.”

          He plugs in the cable.

          Immediately the world around him lights up. Colors swirl around in a bright, glowing dance. Numbers and pictures and feelings pass through him and over and under and in places he can’t perceive but he _knows_ are there, and he can see Church shining with a million colors, and he can see the numbers and connections and how everything fits into place and it’s _amazing_.

          It’s also nauseating. Overwhelming. Too much, _too much_. Tucker sways as his head starts to feel too heavy for the rest of him.

          < _Oops, sorry about that._ > The colors blink off, the sensations fizzle away, and Church appears normally in front of the panel. “Didn’t realize we had a link up.”

          “I- That was-” Tucker feels dizzy, but very awake. Like as if he was getting sick off of too much caffeine. Is that how Church sees, how he feels all the time?

          The avatar shrugs. “Only when I’m connected with new information, or a new problem to solve. It’s like a book, kind of. You only get to experience it for the first time once. After that, it’s consumed, and it’s not as good when you try to revisit it.”

          “Well,” Tucker says. “I mean, you could just wait till you forget it.”

          Church laughs, with no humor. “I never forget.”

          The hologram blinks off again and after a minute the door slides open. < _I’m in… aaaand. We are go! Let’s hurry._ >

          Tucker tears the cable off the panel, replaces the cover, hastily puts the screws back in, hustles over to the shower, wrestles the handle back into place, and turns it on.

          15 minutes.

          There are no guards in the hall, thanks to Church starting a small electrical fire down the other end of the corridor. Far enough to get them out of eyesight, close enough that they’d feel the need to abandon their post to investigate. Tucker hurries, passing countless befuddled soldiers and technicians unable to stop various malfunctions around the ship thanks to Church’s perfectly timed mayhem. He even sees a sopping wet Hawley, in the most hideous, flower-print, magenta pajamas he’s ever seen, stomping around the mess hall, snapping at some poor custodians about the fire sprinklers going off in the barracks. Her hair bun, somehow, as immaculate as ever.

          He sneaks by them all, feeling rather silly with the cable trailing out of the back of his head like some kind of robotic ponytail, until he hits a maintenance shaft with a keypad near the hatch. Church tells Tucker the passcode he has to type in.

          Tucker can barely stifle his laughter as he punches in: “P-A-S-S-C-O-D-E”.

          The ladder goes directly to the empty control room, as all the engineers and technicians are either still asleep, or scrambling around various parts of the ship, trying to figure out what was going wrong.

          < _I locked the door. We got some time. Get over to that console over there._ >

          Tucker looks at the one Church is indicating and feels a little ill. There are the same charts and medical graphs that Hargrove made him look at the first week all up on the wall. Tucker’s fingers fly over the computer and bring up a holographic port where he leans close to and just sticks the frayed ragged end of his cable into. The hologram morphs to accommodate the atypical “jack” and Tucker nearly falls when Church becomes overwhelmed with information once again, though he can see the effort he’s making of holding back this time. It’s over in a split second. The lights and electronics of the room flicker off, only the console in front of Tucker remains lit.

          “You good there Church?” Tucker asks.

          After a minute or two, the lights come back on, and he hears the AI reply < _Yeah… Yeah. I’m good... You can take the cable out now._ >

          “Fuckin’ finally!” Tucker yanks the thing out of the back of his head. “That felt so damn weird. Let’s never do that again.”

          < _Hahah. Well…_ > Church appears again and Tucker feels a huge smile from him. “Luckily, you won’t have to! I just freed up my wireless capability.” He shakes out his shoulders and bounces on his toes. “Damn! This feels good. Even better than I thought it’d be.”

          A waveform pops onto the screen and Tucker hears the shower from his room sputter out right as the timer cuts it. Church remotely turns it on again.

          Tucker rolls his eyes. “Dude, it’s only been like a month. You should know what it’s like.”

          Church sticks his hands on his hips. “I forgot, okay?”

          “Ooooh! What happened to ‘I never forget’?” Tucker says, mocking Church’s earlier tone.

          “Okay I’m a drama queen. Whatever. Shut up.” A few of the screens blink and flicker. “Alright, I’m converting all our blocks.”

          Tucker raises his eyebrow. “Converting?”

          “Well yeah. If we just delete them outright, they’ll just write new ones. For each block I have to write a program that not only rejects every change they make if they realize something’s off, but shows no bugs when they compile a fix. And that’s all just on the surface; the actual working program, which is mine, has to be hidden under theirs. To make them believe it though there has to be a randomization factor that produces bugs, but those bugs have to be faked and-”

          “Oh my god HAL, stop. I get it. They’ll try to fix a symptom, and not know about the disease.”

          “That’s…. Actually a good metaphor. Anyway, wanna see what they have on Junior while I’m here?”

          Tucker’s heart jumps. “Fuck! Yes, where is it?”

          One of the panels showing Church’s program being written faster than Tucker can follow, blinks and changes to a folder that Tucker hastily opens and scans. Lots of pictures, most he’s already seen. A few new ones. An uncomfortable amount are from close up. He pores over them maybe a bit too long, and then moves over to text files. There’s notes on his schedule mostly. Tucker immediately goes and messes them up. Making the kid harder to track couldn’t hurt.

          He opens a new message.

 

_Hey Junior, miss me? I-_

 

          Deletes it. Tries again.

 

_Hey Kid, I’m guessing you thought I was dea-_

 

          Deletes it.

 

_Hey Kid,_

_You’re being watched. Someone’s got you in their crosshairs and you might be in trouble. I’m gonna do my best to keep that from happening, but you gotta stay alert, yeah? I’m sorry I put you through this; thinking I was dead. I’m so goddamn sorry. I lov-_

 

          Tucker pauses. He knows his kid. Knows he’d jump on a ship and come for him if he had even a hint his dad was alive, assassin’s be damned. Fuck.

 

_Hey Kid,_

_You’re being watched. Someone’s got you in their crosshairs and you might be in trouble. I’m gonna do my best to keep that from happening, but you gotta stay alert, yeah? Don’t trust anyone._

 

_..._

 

_I served with your father. I know he’d be proud of you._

 

          “Done.” Church says, and Tucker hastily tries to wipe away some tears that snuck out of his eyes.

          “Can you send this?” He asks. Church nods, disappears, and encrypts it before his eyes.

          < _We don’t want Charon finding it later._ >

          Tucker nods.

          The trip back to his room goes without a hitch. Church, now free to cause mayhem wherever they went, is easily able to distract Charon personnel with technical malfunctions left and right. Sneaking by is almost too easy.

          Tucker is back in his room, in the shower, with the temperature _finally_ as scalding hot as he likes it, when guards burst into his room. Tucker shrieks and pokes his head out from around the curtain. “WHAT THE FUCK. CAN’T A GUY TAKE A SHOWER??” He yells through the steam. “That fucking timer FINALLY breaks and you assholes gotta bust in? Really?”

          One of the guards groans and the other does the universal motion of I-am-rolling-my-eyes-under-this-helmet. The third one reaches for his radio. Tucker recognizes him as the same guy who slapped him earlier. “Asset is still secure. Not a security fluke, shower’s just broken.”

          Tucker looks affronted. “Yeah, well, don’t get around to fixing it anytime soon. 15 minutes is nowhere near enough time to properly jack of-”

          “Ugh,” The guard holds up his hand. “We don’t want to hear it.” They glance at the perfectly replaced panel cover and leave.

          Loud enough to be heard over the spray of water, Tucker laughs and laughs and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneaky sneak sneak.
> 
> I got a little over-excited at all the technobabble. Disclaimer: I know very little about electronics! Haha
> 
> ALSO I know i haven't been replying to comments BUT I REALLY APPRECIATE EVERY ONE and I will try to be better about responding!!


	10. Chapter 10

          Simmons is really starting to hate his job.

          He supposes he really shouldn’t complain. He’s safe. Not out in the field getting his shiney metal fax machine shot at. And Kimball is really a much better boss than Sarge ever was. Really. Much, much better. Even if she was a heart-poundingly-terrifying _girl_. And the work he’s doing here is important, he knows that, and he’s probably one of the only people here qualified to do it, it’s just…

          It’s just hard to sit in front of a computer all day long when he knows it’s his friends’ asses on the line. If he could call the Freelancers that. It’s hard when he interprets the warning signal sent from the Alto facility, that the tower has been bombarded, and feels like maybe, there would have a been a slight chance that there would have been a different outcome if he’d been there to help.

          The smell of sweat interrupts his thoughts. Grif sits down heavily in the chair next to him.

          Well _okay_ . Maybe not if _Simmons_ had been there. But the maroon soldier feels guilty for making Grif stay behind. Maybe with the both of them there, maybe it would have tipped the odds, and Carolina wouldn’t be explosively berating herself, and Washington wouldn’t be in the infirmary out cold, and they wouldn't all be this much closer to oblivion...

          Grif breaks him out of his thoughts. “Simmons you need to take a break, let’s go hang out and bother Doc or something.”

          “What?” Simmons startles. “No way, I’m super close to cracking this encryption. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, and Carolina said this was all that was left in the tower systems when they escaped.” He pokes the screen of his dinky little laptop. “It could be really important!”

          “Or. It could be junk.”

          Simmons glares. Grif sighs dramatically and laces his fingers together on top of his head. Leans back heavily in the chair.

          “No you’re right.” He admits. “I’m just bored out of my mind.”

          Guilt again. Simmons fiddles with the computer. “Why don’t you go train with Carolina or something? You being mister fitness all of a sudden… and she’d probably want the distraction.”

          Grif snorts and closes his eyes. “I said I’m bored. Not suicidal.”

          Simmons gives him that one. They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The buzzing of light bulbs and clacking of the keyboard the only sounds in the small, makeshift office. Simmons forgot how nice it was to just have company like this, no words needing to be said, just the presence of another person... and damn, wow, he really has been working too much. When was the last time he and Grif just sat together like this?

          Kimball pops in once (Simmons can now hold eye contact with her for _three whole seconds!_ ) to drop off some paperwork about half an hour later, which seems to startle Grif awake.

          Odd, since it used to be nothing short of a grenade blowing up in his face could wake the guy up. Simmons hasn’t been around checking his sleep habits lately though… They share a bunk bed in the red team’s designated room, but Simmons usually goes to bed way after Grif, and gets up earlier for work….

          Okay, yup. Time for a break. Simmons glances at the new stack of paperwork out of instinct, but it’s nothing pressing; it can wait.

          He nudges Grif as he stands up, “C’mon fatass, let’s get something to eat.”

          Grif scowls, “Dude I’ve lost, like, fifteen pounds in the last month, you’re gonna need a new nickname for me.”

          He’s not wrong. Grif’s armor has been looking a lot looser around the middle lately. Simmons says, “I can always fall back on ‘dumbass’.”

          Grif grunts, and they walk to the cafeteria, making small talk.

          “So how’s Wash doing?” Simmons asks.

          “Better. Grey said he should wake up in the next day or two. Apparently it could have been a lot worse than it was; there were a lot of burning computers and stuff, and she wasn’t sure exactly what he inhaled.” Grif smirks. “He’ll probably just have a hoarse voice for a while. Won’t be able to yell at us.”

          Simmons laughs at that. “He won’t be yelling at me anyways, Kimball’s not gonna waste me on training. I’ve got the freaking AI’s workload; I always thought Church was making up shit to complain about when he’d talk about what he did here...” Simmons feels Grif tense up rather than see it. “Besides, all you’ve done lately is work out. What, you gonna skimp again now that the drill sergeant is back?”

          “No. I-” Grif cuts himself off. “We’ll see. Depends how much he’d want to scream at me if I don’t show up.” He forces a smirk. “Hey, do you think he’d get mad enough to try if I offered him a cigarette? Since he’s gonna have a smoker’s voice thing going on now? I wanna see if that squeaky voice thing he does will sound different now that his throat’s all fucked up, haha...”

          Simmons doesn’t press. They both know why Grif doesn’t skip training anymore.

          The pair pick up trays and each get a baked potato, an apple, and chicken soup. Well. Not really chicken. Those lizard bird things. Still taste like chicken. Just like everything else in the galaxy.

          “What’s the deal with the Towers anyhow? I noticed Kimball’s been freaking out.” Grif asks after they sit down.

          Simmons slurps his soup. “What do you know?”

          “Well,” Grif shakes too much salt onto his potato, and then also into his soup. Eugh. “Kimball and Carolina were screaming at each other when she and Wash got back. Kinda hard to miss.” He takes a bite of potato. “They’re both the kinda ladies that get mad because they don’t really know how to be scared. So everyone knows about Alto Tower. Some of us also know,” Grif looks at Simmons knowingly. “About Duet.”

          Well shit... Simmon’s spoon hits the bowl with a clink when he finishes, then he leans back and sighs.

          “Alright.” He starts. “Kimball didn’t want people to panic. At the same time that Alto went dark, Duet’s tower was knocked out in a bombing run. The techies were still in the operational center. They got some pretty crazy video of it.”

          Yeah, they had gotten a pretty good view from a kilometer away over the flatlands: Fighters swooping in, and then the whole thing collapsing on itself while going up in flames, periodically spewing yellow streams of light.

          Beautiful.

          Terrifying.

          Grif swears. Simmons grimaces. Continues. “We knew that was going to happen eventually. The gambit was that if we pooled our defences to Alto, we’d be able to hold it.”

          “Well that sure worked out great didn’t it!?” Grif’s voice cracks a little, in that way where he’s on the verge of hysterics, but trying to keep it quiet. “So what, now we’re fucked? We’re fucked.”

          Simmons is too tired to lie. “Yeah. We’re pretty fucked.”

          They finish eating in silence. Grif is clearly agitated, he doesn’t even eat all his food. Simmons sympathizes. Kind of. He’d already had his series of panic attacks about all this days ago. He was beyond able to give a fuck about it anymore, he’d burned out all of his concern. If Hargrove manages to knock out the last tower, they probably won’t even know about it until they were all dead anyways. He kind of wants to tell Grif that, but he feels like the man wouldn’t take it well.

          Funny. Once upon a time, the one with the laissez-faire attitude was the soldier in orange.

          But then again, Grif had always cared. He was just running out of the ability to hide it anymore.

          They drop off their dishes and trays and then linger in the hall. Grif’s arms are crossed, and he’s tapping his fingers on his bicep. “Hargrove will gun for the others at Beat Cliff next.”

          Sarge. Donut. The lieutenants. Not to mention a big chunk of the army. Kimball didn’t want to take any chances. Not now.

          “Yeah.” Simmons knows what’s coming.

          “I think… I think I’m gonna transfer over. I’ve gotten better with the Grifshot. And if that’s likely our last stand… We could always use more firepower.”

          Simmons tries to ignore the dropping feeling in his gut. “You’re probably right.”

          God, he can’t take this. Simmons starts to walk back down the hall to his office. Grif shuffles to keep up next to him. “Jesus, dude, please don’t be weird about this.”

          “Weird? Weird? Of course not, my _best friend’s_ just gonna run off and maybe get himself killed with the rest of our team, resulting in the planet most likely blowing up, but no! I’m not gonna be _weird about it!_ ”

          “Simmons-”

          “Meanwhile, I’ll be stuck here in the mountains working as a glorified _calculator_!”

          Grif says nothing, Just reaches out for Simmon’s arm when the man slows at the door to his office, his shouting still echoing down the hall. He waits for Simmons to look at him, and gives a little squeeze, and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Simmons can’t think of anything but how unreasonably pissed he is, and says nothing.

          After Grif leaves, Simmons finishes his paperwork, provides Kimball an analysis of Alto tower’s computer virus and how they might be able to fix their firewalls to prevent it from decimating their systems in the future, and starts the newest version of his program to break the encryption on the data left behind.

          He has a million things to do. All vitally important to the success of their operation. Things that don’t require him holding a gun in his hands, or leaving this isolated, safe, mountain base a hundred kilometers away from where he wants to be.

          He hates his job.

 

 

* * *

 

 

          The first time, Tucker barely even notices what happens.

          He’s just come back from sparring with Hawley. He’s pushed into his room by the guards, and immediately heads over to his desk and gobbles down his dinner tray, orange slices and all.

          Tucker’s starting to think maybe Hargrove wasn’t just making a dig at him with the citrus, and that maybe there was a room somewhere on the ship just filled to the brim with oranges, because he’s gotten one with _every_ meal since he’s been in this damn place. It was starting to get ridiculous. His gums haven’t stopped tingling this entire time, but it’s not killing him, and it’s the only thing he gets to eat with any flavor to it. Maybe they were just really careful about space-scurvy or some shit.

          Out of all the things to complain about, oranges didn’t even make the list.

          Tucker strips and heads for the, unfortunately, re-calibrated shower. Church won’t change the settings back, even though he now has access. ‘ _Don’t want to draw suspicion here_ ’, he said. The AI has been pretty quiet since their great heist, presumably distracted by whatever data he can find on the ship without being detected. Tucker doesn’t complain. Constant running commentary on your every thought gets old.

          Tucker is exhausted from today. Something had been off with all of his reflexes lately; he’d gotten his ass handed to him over and over and over again by Hawley, and he just wants to forget all about getting beat up by old women in the stream of warm water. He’d rather think of young women.

          Church isn’t paying attention to him right now… Tucker turns the shower handle on.

          Hot young women, He thinks as he scratches his nails lightly over his scalp, waiting for the water to heat up.. Maybe not super young. Like. Not even actually young? Middle aged? (That’s a new development.) Tucker thinks of a hot middle aged woman.

          Blonde. He likes blondes. He steps into the stream of water, feels the water start to run down his face.

          Unbidden, the mental image of the pirate with the grenade comes to his mind. With her face leaking blood and her partially caved-in skull showing bits of bone and her hair the same color as Wash’s and suddenly in Tucker’s mind’s eye _it’s Wash_ with _his_ grey matter leaking into the dirt and instead of smirking and revealing a grenade he looks Tucker dead in the eye like in the basement of the Tractor Tower and falls face down, limp, and hooollly fuck, holy fuck, _holy fuck-_

  
          Then Tucker snaps his head up. His body is wet and cooling, there is water slowly dripping from the shower head… the shower is off, and he’s surrounded by steam. What the fuck?

          “Church?”

_ <Yeah?> _

          “What just happened?”

_ <Uh. You took a shower?> _

          “No, I literally just turned the water on... and it’s... off? Already? And…” Tucker stands there. Baffled.

          Epsilon flickers on in front of him. “Dude, you were standing there under the water for 15 minutes.” He gives Tucker a look. “And then the water turned off. Like it’s supposed to.”

          “Jesus.” Tucker says. “That was… Damn, I zoned out big time.” He makes a face at Church. “Does this mean you were watching me shower!? Creep!”

          “Ha. Ha. Ha. You’re aware that I can’t actually see you right? That this projection doesn’t have actual eyes and is all for your lizard-mind’s benefit and that I just monitor you through all your brain stuff?”

          Tucker makes even more of a face at Church. “Dude, if you were trying to make that _less_ creepy, you failed. Like. Spectacularly.”

          “Oh, whatever. Have fun looking like you’re talking to yourself. I know how much you love that!” And the hologram turns off again. Dick.

          Tucker gives up on the thought of masturbating... Ugh, can he even enjoy it ever again with Church there? He pulls on fresh sweats. Sits on the bed, and starts to stretch out his sore limbs. He wonders about how odd it is that, even after a week of no real leads, it seems like Charon doesn’t suspect the antagonistic AI and prisoner aboard their ship for all the trouble from last week. Other than a check-up on Tucker and a diagnostic run on Epsilon (which he had expertly tampered with), Hargrove’s people seemed to have totally skimmed over their potential involvement.

          “Church. You’re absolutely sure we’re in the clear?”

          <Yeah. I’m sure.> Church’s tone darkens. <They found someone else to blame.>

          “Wait, what?” That was news to Tucker. “Who else could possibly be responsible?”

          <So, whatever happened when we were all trying to escape… With Caboose, and the Reds? Remember how all my pieces were spazzing out?>

          A rainbow of colors. A flurry of feelings; panic, rage, excitement, fear. And voices. So many voices screeching into his brain.

          Yeah. Tucker remembers.

          <Well… I wasn’t the only artificial construct there, if you’ll recall.>

          Tucker blanks for a minute. But then-

          “FILLS!!” Tucker’s eyes shoot wide. “Oh my god! What happened to her!?”

          <The ship sent out some sort of signal, maybe it’s what they used to control her in the first place, but they keyed it up to the point where it would effect me.> Church sounds… sad. <I’m guessing it would have had a devastating effect on a regular Virtual Intelligence, even one as advanced as she was.>

          Tucker’s voice is thick. “So… she died?”

          <Not exactly… She wouldn’t have been conscious anymore… but she’d still have subroutines floating around. Little bits of her personality moving around the system.>

          “That's fucked. And they think that’s what caused the fire extinguishing system to freak out?”

          <Pretty much.>

          “Jeez…” Tucker finds his throat has a lump in it that he can’t quite swallow down. FILLS… Sheila, whoever or whatever she had been, she was still Blue Team. Had seen them off on their grand portal adventure all those years ago. Had only just reunited with them and risked it all to help them escape here on the Staff of Charon.

          The idea that bits of her (figurative) _corpse_ were floating around the ship’s computers was nothing short of heartbreaking.

          <Oh. They’re not floating around anymore.> Church interrupts Tucker’s thoughts, voice sounding like murder. <The moment Charon found their scapegoat, they purged all traces of her from the system. Whether or not she died from the signal is debateable, but for all intents and purposes, she’s dead now.>

          Tucker has thick skin. He's always prided himself on it. But something about Church's tone... the frankness of it.... Tucker finds grief threatening to swallow him, and without warning, like before, he blacks out.

          When he snaps back into himself, the digital clock embedded in the wall says two hours have passed, and he’s sitting on the bed still, salty tear-tracks sticky on his cheeks. His eyes dry, like he hasn't been blinking. His back is sore from, apparently, staying in the same position the entire time, but the pain in his hands is what draws his attention.

          The skin around his nails has been picked bloody.

 

* * *

 

          Simmons isn’t there to see Grif off when he leaves. Apparently Caboose is going with him. The man is now unnervingly mobile on his prosthetic, like he’d been walking on it all his life.

          The Blue had popped into Simmons’s office and given him the news along with a back-breaking hug before bounding off excitedly. The Red had been so engrossed in his own bitterness about _Caboose_ being able to leave for Beat Cliff and not him, that the sharp, monotonous voice of Freckles echoing up the hall didn’t arouse the faintest bit of suspicion; The rifle had been nowhere in sight.

          Carolina decides to stay. Her excuse being that, though the obvious next target was Beat Cliff, the others tractor beams were still in danger of sabotage, like Alto. But Simmons can see that she’s worried about Washington, who still hasn’t woken up. He catches her in the visitor’s chair next to Wash’s cot in the infirmary on several occasions, watching over him with tired, sad eyes. Simmons isn’t sure she even sleeps anymore. She’s either in there, or out training, even into the long hours of the night.

          If Carolina was terrifying before, she’s a monster now. Simmons does his best to avoid her.

          Two days after Grif and Caboose depart, Simmons’ program finally breaks the encryption. A small surge of pride shoots through him as he sees the screen show that the task is complete when he checks up on in after dinner, still finishing his water bottle.

          Then he immediately chokes, and spits up water everywhere.

          He does a double take.

          And then a triple take.

          He runs through his program for any translation bugs, but, nope, everything’s working in proper order, before calmly pulling up his radio, and calling Kimball. His voice is so clear, so steady, and so not-cracking as he talks to her, that Kimball initially doesn’t recognize his voice.

          “Ma’am, you’re going to want to see this."

          On his screen is a 1kb text file:

 
    
    
                                 _____
    			    ||	 ||
    			    |\___/|
    			    |	  |
    			    |	  |
    			    |<--->|
    			    |	  |
    			    |	  |
    			    |	  |
    		       _____|<--->|_____
    		   ___/     |	  |	\
    		 /    |     |	  |	|_
    		 |    |     |	  |	|  \
    		 |    |     |	  |	|   |
    		 |			|   |
    		 |			    |
    		 |			   /
    		 |			  /
    		  \	   	         /
    		    \		       /
    		     |		      |
    		     |		      |  
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THINGS ARE FINALLY GETTING INTO MOTION HERE AAAAHAHHHHHHHH this is very exciting! :D
> 
> Very very very sorry about the long wait: I've been crazy busy lately and have had 0 time or energy for anything creative. I had a super hard time with this chapter because Simmons is really tough for me to write, but I hope he's satisfactorily in-character at least hahah.
> 
> Also I apologize for anyone reading this in mobile! I'm gonna try to replace that end bit with a PNG so it translates to all screens better, but tinypic has been not working...


	11. Chapter 11

          “Grif.”

          "….."

          “Grif!”

          "………."

          “HEY GRIF!!!!!!”

          Grif flinches from the volume of his passenger. The trip is long. The road is dusty and dry. He’s hungry, thirsty, and tired. He’s got no more patience, and lord above, he wishes it were Simmons here in the Warthog with him instead of this damn Blue. “If you have to stop to go pee one more time, Caboose, I swear to god I’m just gonna leave you in the middle of the road!”

          “...Okay!”

         Alright.

          _Wait, what?_

          Grif almost veers into a ditch out of surprise. “What?!”

          “I said: Okay!”

          Grif peers suspiciously at his passenger. Well. As best he can in a helmet, while also keeping an eye on the road. He still doesn’t stop the vehicle.

          “...What’s going on?” Grif asks.

          Caboose fiddles nervously with his crayons and notebook. Doodles of several blue figures all holding hands, with a rainbow over their heads, on lined paper. Jesus christ that’s sad.

          “I changed my mind.”

          “What?”

          “Yeah, I want to go back.”

          “What!?!?”

          “Yeah, so if you could just drop me off here, I’ll just-”

          “Caboose! We’re miles away from HQ! It’s gonna take you a week to walk back! And I sure as hell am not turning this car around!”

          “Ah! Yes! Well, see, I’m not going to walk!”

          “You’re not going to walk.” It’s still a question, but Grif says it with such a disbelieving, flat tone, that it doesn’t really sound like one.

          “Yes! I’m going to run! I can run very far, you know! And very fast!” Caboose… beams? Beams from behind the helmet. It’s Caboose, of course he’s beaming. “Much farther and much faster than you!”

          “Yeah, yeah, rub it in.”

          Caboose recoils. “I don’t want to rub anything. I don’t want to touch you, you’re always mad, and sweaty.”

          “Jesus Christ... Okay. Caboose. Listen. We gotta go to Beat Cliff, okay?” Grif tries to go for a casual tone, but his irritation bubbling just under the surface. He points to themselves. “We’re the reinforcements.” Points to the heavily loaded back of the Warthog. “We’re bringing supplies.” Points outside at the desolate landscape. “And we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you _run back_.”

          He settles back into the seat. “Besides. Wash and Carolina would _kill_ me.”

          Caboose visibly deflates, and becomes silent once again. Grif is partially relieved that the subject is dropped (He knows how long and arduous an argument with Caboose can get when he really gets going), but some part of him hopes that the big guy doesn’t fall back into that unnerving silence from after the _Staff of Charon_ . That had just been _wrong_.

          “Why go back anyways?” Grif huffs. “Don’t you wanna see Smith again? Aren’t you two like, best friends?”

          After a minute of silence, Grif risks a glance over. Caboose is slowly rolling a sky blue crayon between his thumb and forefinger. “...Yeah.” Caboose says slowly. “But he’s not. You know. My _best_ best friend.”

                   Oh.

          “Caboose, your… _best_ best friend isn’t back at HQ either…”

          Caboose just gives Grif a completely unreadable Look. The helmet doesn’t help.

          Grif shuts up, and they drive in silence, only the sounds of the wind and the motor keeping them company.

          They drive for hours. When they stop for the night, the twin suns are long gone, the stars are out, and one of Chorus’s moons fills the sky. Grif takes a minute to enjoy the view before checking on Caboose: already out cold, dead asleep in his seat. Grif rolls his eyes, and checks their output readings, making sure everything’s off and undetectable in case a Charon fighter scans the ground from overhead any point during the night, then adjusts his seat so he’s leaning back as far as he can go. It wasn’t a workout, but driving all day is exhausting, and he falls asleep without a problem.

          When he wakes up, Caboose is nowhere to be found.

 

 

* * *

 

 

          Caboose has been running a long time, but it doesn’t bother him. He gets to run with a friend! Which is much more fun than running on his own. Or running and getting yelled at, like during training. Plus, he’s running for a purpose. It’s very exciting.

          “Freckles! I see a bird!”

          “ _This is the 32nd of this particular indigenous fauna you have identified Captain Caboose._ ” The monotonous voice buzzes from his shiney chrome new leg. Chrome, except for where Caboose had drawn on some freckles. For consistency, of course. After all, Freckles would be upset if he didn’t have freckles.

          “Oh you! You are so good at counting!”

          “ _Thank you Captain Caboose._ ”

          Yup! Running sure is better with a buddy!

          Sure, he felt bad about leaving Grif behind, especially when he said the Carolina and Wash would kill him. But, nah, they were too nice for that. They would just beat him up a little bit. It would be _fine_. And yeah, he desperately wanted to see Smith again, they were best friends, after all. Just not… best best friends.

          Caboose has a much more important mission.

          He was going to find Church.

          Here’s the thing about Caboose: He isn’t stupid. Sure everyone _acted_ all sad about Tucker and Church staying on the Staff of Charon. But not one time had Caboose heard anything about anyone _doing anything_ about it. And. He knows. He knows chances are Tucker is dead. He’s been spending the past few months trying to figure out why, if Tucker was never his friend, then why was he so sad about it? Why did he not want to eat? Or sleep? Or talk or play? He just wanted his team back. All together, and whole.

          But Tucker, though he was mean, and a jerk, and kept Church all to himself... He still helped Caboose. Still saved him again and again. Still looked out for him. That made him a friend. Caboose’s friend. So Caboose was sad.

          But Church.

          Church never dies.

          Church is  _important_.

          Even the bald man would want to keep Church. So Church. Church was definitely still alive.

          Caboose could _feel_ it.

          So he faked sleep and waited for his chance because Grif wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t let him go. Neither would Wash or Carolina or Kimball. They wanted the towers. They wanted the UNSC. Caboose just wants his best best friend. He knew they couldn’t find him and drag him back: Grif turned off all his suit’s readouts that night.

          He snuck Freckles into his leg to help him, and asked the virtual intelligence to find the Bald Man’s ship. He had a plan. Well. Most of one.

          It’s almost a week of running, sleeping for a few hours, snacking on the energy bars and sipping from water bottles stored in his pack. Caboose is very tired, but Freckles distracts him, keeps him company, plays games with him. It’s nice. And when the large, foreboding shape of the ship held hostage by yellow light becomes visible in the distance, hovering near the familiar silhouette of the Communication Temple, Caboose feels all the energy he’s lost over the past six days seep right back.

          When he reaches the Temple, he sees Charon soldiers stalking the grounds. Freckles helpfully warns him of hostiles, while he gets ready to wave at them. Surely they’d help him get back on the ship! Especially after trying so hard to keep him and his friends on it last tim-

          Something tackles him down behind some rubble, keeping him out of sight of the soldiers below.

          A normally deep, calm, stoic voice is shout-whispering at him.

          “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing!?”

Freckles is freaking out, but Caboose just grins.

          “Hello, Locust!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

          Tucker finds himself often losing moments. The situations he wakes up in tend to be… odd. Nothing extraordinary or dangerous. Just weird.

          Like being in the middle of eating, and suddenly snapping back to consciousness with the food in his mouth _still there_ but over-chewed to the point of liquidness. He spits/drools it out. _Disgusting_.

          Or getting out of bed, then waking up, again, in bed. At first he thinks they’re those weird dreams where you think you’ve already started your day but you’re actually still asleep. But there’s a _feeling_ to this weird, blacking out shit that doesn’t feel anything like dreaming. And he’s getting into the habit of checking the time when this happens, and it’s always about 15 minutes later than he starts with.

          One time he’s brushing his teeth over his sink (a weird kind of brush with a super short handle, he can’t fashion it into a shiv), and wakes up suddenly, finding his mouth tasting of blood, and that he’d brushed his gums to the point of bleeding.

          Yeah.

          Weird shit.

          He panics often and asks Church to fill him in on what happens. Church gets overly annoyed at this.

          <You move around like a zombie or a record on repeat and won’t listen to a goddamn word I say is what happens!!>

          Which is disconcerting. Was this a side effect of the stuff in his head? Getting slammed around by Hawley? His citrus allergy? Having an AI in general? He wishes he could ask Wash about this.

          No answers from Church, only reassuring platitudes. If anything really dangerous was happening in his head, Church would notice.

          Right?

          Tucker’s able to set aside his concern for a while. Until it starts happening during training. It’s usually the last half hour. Which, honestly, Tucker would love to skip anyways. But then it stretches out. 45 minutes. An hour and a half.

          And then, consistently, he’s blacking out for three hours. Waking up to Hawley’s face, which is usually glaring at him in a disappointed way, but when snapping out of his spells? Is expressing what can only be described as _approval._

          Which is weirder than _anything_ else.

          They have a new mission assignment for him. Another tower to sabotage. Like before. They don’t tell him shit about the mission, but this time, Church is free to wander about the systems as he likes.

          “And?”

          “Hmmm. Yup.” The avatar stretches it’s arms above it’s head, like someone might do when they have something juicy to talk about and _aren’t sharing_.

          The things Church will do to look casual, _I swear to God…_

          “Oi! I _am_ casual! Shut the fuck up and listen!” Church crosses his arms haughtily. “Okay, so from what I can tell there’s a fuckton more Chorus army folks here. I guess they’re working together with the pirates too.”

          Tucker rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I think we figured that out from the whole ‘Lina and Wash aren’t killing the Pirates bit.”

          “Just saying! There’s a few Pirates that have been seen too. But, you’re gonna love this:”

          His hologram flickers and in his place is a photograph.

          “Is that _Sarge!? And Donut?_ ” Tucker asks. In the photo, most likely a hacked surveillance camera, is a bright red figure next to a bright pink one. And behind _them…_

          “Holy shit! That's the lieutenants!” Tucker’s face breaks into a grin. “Okay! This is perfect! They should have gotten the message from us by now, they can take us in, contact Kimball or Carolina, and we can figure out where the hell to go from there! Hell, I bet Grey’s already got a plan to dig you out of my brain!”

          “I take offense to that.” Church retorts in a flat tone.

          Tucker’s grin doesn’t falter, starts messing with Church’s avatar when he flickers back from the photo, wiggling his fingers around in the image and mussing it up. “Awwww c’mon you know I don’t mean it like that! Anyway, I bet you can’t wait to get back to Carolina, right? Didn’t you guys have like,” Tucker wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “A _thing_?”

          Church recoils and Tucker can _feel_ the disgust rolling off him in waves. “It’s not like _that_ !!” He screeches. “Cut it out!! Oh my god. You’re the worst. Seriously!!?? I’m an _AI_.”

          “Didn’t stop you from having a thing with _Tex._ ”

          And then there’s a very, very awkward moment where Tucker thinks he’s crossed a line. He can feel Church sputter in his head. Panic. Start to freak out.

          “Jeez dude, calm down! I’m just teasing!” Tucker calls, worried. That was a mistake, he should have left it.

          How is it after all this time, he knows to avoid this stuff with Wash, but always forgets with Church? Epsilon and Washington went through the same trauma pretty much. Why can’t Tucker keep his big mouth shut?

          “Anyway Carolina is like. Your daughter! Or something. Your daughter-sister? Man I don’t know! I was just messing with you! Sorry!”

          And just a second too late, Tucker remembers that _he shouldn’t know that_ . Wash let it slip once. That Carolina was the Director’s daughter. He’d immediately made Tucker promise to whatever he held sacred that he wouldn’t tell _anyone._ And Tucker’d been pretty good about it, because a genuinely angry Carolina was not something anyone would want to see heading their way but he fucked up here and Church was going to ask-

          But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even seem to care. “It’s fine, just cut it out or I won’t tell you about your present.”

          That’s a weird enough thing to say that it startles Tucker completely out his line of thought. “What?”

          Tucker feels Church smirk. “I may or may not have gotten you clearance to use your sword.”

          Tucker stares for a moment before doing his best to mentally hug Church. The AI seems a little stunned by the gratitude.

          “Motherfucking YES!” Tucker clenches his hands and does his best not to dance a little bit, but damn, he’s just so excited to get out of this hellhole. To see his stupid friends again. “Buddy, we are getting the fuck outta here!!”

          When they put him in the Meta suit again the next day, Tucker feels ten thousand times lighter than he did during his first mission. The snap of the helmet over his head, claustrophobic when he’d been unable to remove it, now feels comfortable and safe, like what it'a actually protecting him from are the Charon personnel fiddling with the seals and buckles, now that he knows Church can unlock it for them when he needs it. The last thing they give him is his sword, right as he’s about to leave the ship. He can feel the familiar weight of it at his hip’s mag-strap.

          Everything feels right. In control.

          If this went well, this would be the last time he’d be in one of these shitty little shuttles. He misses the big spaces inside the Chorus Pelicans. Enough room for him, and the people he trusts to fit comfortably. He can’t wait to fly in one. With Grif in the pilot’s chair, Donut and Caboose bugging Sarge, Simmons trying not to piss himself while going over mission parameters with Carolina, Church laughing at Simmons, and Wash, sitting next to him, looking on fondly while Tucker complains about them all.

          Soon.

          When they kick him out of the shuttle this time, he’s ready. The fall is still from _terrifyingly high up,_ but with the suit, he executes a perfect landing, the motorized legs absorbing his momentum with hardly any discomfort.

          Tucker activates his sword, the familiar “ _ZSWISH_ ” making him smile. The blue light he missed so much highlighting the red dirt around him in an interesting way, crackling and fizzling electricity sending that thrill through his arm that just _nothing else_ does.

          The yellow light in the sky shows him what direction to head in. _Time to go home_ .

          Tucker blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should reread this again so I might edit a little later. Nothing drastic tho; again please feel free to point out typos that sort of thing!! As you can probably tell by now, this thing's gonna be LOOOOOONG, I'm just really bad at making the chapters long haha...
> 
> SHIT'S GETTING REAL NOW HERE WE GO HERE WE GO!!!!!!!


	12. Chapter 12

          Beat Cliff is boooooring.

          Or so Donut thinks. It’s been maybe a week since anything interesting happened, and that had just been Grif showing up with some extra supplies (They have paprika now! And cayenne! Donut can finally try out that chicken dry rub!) and then promptly getting chewed out by Sarge for losing Caboose. Donut feels a little bad for his orange teammate, but from how Grif said it, it sounded like there wasn’t anything he could have done. Pretty much no one on earth, short of Church, could get Caboose to do anything when he was set on something else. Donut was _sure_ Caboose was fine.

          ...Even _if_ he should have made it back to HQ by now... Even by just walking. They hadn’t heard of his arrival from Carolina or Kimball… Donut hopes that’s just a phone call someone forgot to make, because _gosh darn it_ if he wasn’t just a little bit concerned for the blue...

          Donut’s patrolling the perimeter of the base, nearing the end of his shift. He’s all sweaty and his only thought is taking a nice hot shower as soon as he gets off. It can’t be too long of a shower though, that would be wasting resources. Maybe he can convince someone to join him, to conserve water....

          The whiff is faint, but unmistakable. Donut breaks out of his train of thought when he smells smoke. Looking around, he can see a thin trail of it wafting from around the corner of the building.

          Smoking! On the job! Donut’ll sneak in from behind and teach this soldier a thing or two!

          Upon getting closer, Donut can hear what is unmistakably Grif’s voice.

          “...Yeah Bitters, look, I don’t care. The pack was on the desk, and I haven’t had one in months; you’ll be fine! It’s your fault for leaving them out in the open… Oh you do, huh? Well, your commanding officer here is gonna confiscate that too-”

          Donut creeps closer. Around the concrete, he can see Grif… not smoking? The man’s got his helmet off, but he’s speaking into the radio.

          “...Bitters. I don’t wanna fucking hear it, okay? I got enough shit to be stressed about without worrying about you wandering around, stoned off your ass!!”

          And with that Grif smashes his thumb on the mute button and notices Donut. He doesn’t get a word in before the pink soldier rounds on him.

          “Drugs!! Oh boy, Grif!! Now you’re gonna get it!” Donut shouts. “How could you pollute your body like that?! And taking it from your own _men!!!_ That’s low! You need help-!”

          “Donut, shut up!” Grif interrupts, before Donut can really get rolling. “It’s not like that! ...Well. It was. At first... “ He kicks at the ground, revealing a pack of cigarettes with it’s contents mixed in the dirt.

          Grif sighs. “I couldn’t do it. I thought they’d calm down my nerves, and they did at first. But then I thought of Caboose, and Tucker, and Church, and I just- I dunno.” he huffs out a laugh. Mumbles. “Bitters thought he could trade them back from me for some weed. Where the hell do you even get that stuff out here?”

          Donut is floored. Not so much by what Grif’s saying, but that “You’re… Opening up to _me_ ?” Donut says, ignoring the last bit. The _druggy_ bit. “Grif, I’m so touched!! But… uh, I have to ask: Are you sick?”

          “Ha. Yeah, probably a little bit.” Grif picks at edges of his helmet, a bitter smile on his face. “You’re good with feelings and shit, right? So tell me, how do I stop thinking about how I basically killed most of blue team?”

          For the first time a long time, Donut doesn’t know what to say. He wishes Doc were here. He’d know. There’s a few minutes of silence, and Donut’s hesitation is enough to answer Grif.

          “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

          “Well... If you’re not smoking anymore, why is there still smoke?”

          “What do you mean?” Grif asks.

          “I mean, I can smell smoke! Can’t you?”

          Grif has a blank look for a minute, and then whips his helmet on.

          “Where?”

          The two of them try to triangulate the source of the smoke using the sensors in their helmets, but it takes Donut quite a while to realize they’re going in circles, and thinks to look up. He sees a hole burned into the side of the building, about three feet in diameter, edges still smoldering.

          Donut knows his holes, and that one is the perfect size for a person to climb through.

          He’s about to alert Grif when a huge crashing noise precedes an enormous wave of dust blowing out of the hole, and blasting out several windows further up, as part of the building collapses. Donut and Grif jump in shock.

          “What the fuck!! No fucking way! Fuck, FUCK!!” Grif shouts amidst the raining glass and dust. Pushes his hand to his radio. “Bitters! Bitters!! Come in!!” The building is still rumbling, and it takes a minute for whatever’s collapsing to finish.

          Donut calls Sarge while Grif screams in frustration. Seemingly, Bitters isn’t picking up.

          “Sarge!! The saboteur is here!!” Donut reports, “They blew up east wing!”

 _“Slippery Charon bastard! I’ll tear him apart with my bare hands!”_ Sarge’s tinny voice comes through the radio. _“If it’s anything like Alto, he’s gonna target the control center! I’ll go there with the lieutenants! You take Grif! And use him as a human shield and keep our man from getting out!!”_

          “Oh, fuck you too, Sarge!” Shouts Grif, voice close to cracking.

          Donut hangs up and turns to Grif, “Looks like we gotta double team the rear, Grif. I don’t think anyone’s getting out through the front…” And he’s right, because from where they’re standing, they can both make out the wall of rubble visible through the bent and broken entrance. Grif freezes.

          “Donut.” His voice is shaking. “Bitters was in there. In East wing. I _muted_ him Donut, what if he tried to call me about the- I can’t- I gotta...”

          And Donut gets it, and the answer to Grif’s earlier question, the underlying problem, isn’t going to be fixed by leaving his Lieutenant buried under debris.

          “Go get your man, Grif. I’ll be fine.”

          Grif nods stiffly, and rushes over to the collapsed entrance, Donut doesn’t see him start to dig, because he’s sprinting round to the back. Good thing Wash had them doing laps for so long: the five hundred meters or so it takes to get there barely has Donut break out into a sweat. But then again, he’s always kept in tip-top shape; his body is a temple, after all!

          Outside the doorway, Donut pauses. Thinks for a second. He picks up a large scoop of sand and fills one of his empty ammunition pockets with it. When the lightish-red soldier enters, he flips on the Chorus army’s radio channel, and begins his search. Every room seems empty at a glance, but he throws a handful of sand into every one in case of camouflage, eyes straining to notice a break in the pattern of the falling grains. A trick he picked up way back in Blood Gulch, when Tex would try to sneak into his room to steal his makeup and shampoo during ceasefire. This way, he’s able to get through his wing quickly.

          On the way, he can hear reports from the other soldiers stationed there with them through the radio. Things seem bad. It was lunchtime, and half the soldiers had been in the makeshift cafeteria on the Eastern side of the building when the hallways collapsed. They were all fine, barring one dust-induced asthma attack, but trapped, and unable to get out. All soldiers stationed in the basement, with the Anti Aircraft controls were trapped as well; reporting that all the doors leading back up to the ground floor were fused shut. Almost like they’d been soldered.

          Donut thinks back to the hole that must have been the saboteur's entrance.

          A plasma weapon? Maybe?

          He slows and allows his search to be more methodical once he nears the corridor that meets up with the East wing. He’s out of sand, but it’s not necessary in the thick cloud of dust from the ground up to Donut’s waist.

          Ugh, and he’d just cleaned his armor too!

          “West wing is clear!” Donut reports.

          “ _Alright, we’ve got nothing here_ . _Yet._ ” Sarge replies. “ _Andersmith, Jenkins, and Polomo are with me, and the soldiers we got left are checking the staircase and hallway. We locked the techies in the closet to be safe_ -”

          “Oh Sarge! You shouldn’t force anyone into the closet!”

          “- _I need you and Grif to be on the lookout. The only place our rat can be is between you and me so get your keesters on the way here, you read me?_ ”

          “It’s just me, actually!!”

          Sarge’s voice is dripping with barely contained hope, “ _Did Grif die?_ ”

          “Nope!” Donut replies cheerfully, “He’s digging some men out of the rubble.”

          “ _Dag nabbit! Alright, well, there’s always hope._ ” And with that, Sarge logs off.

          Donut makes his way up the hall, much less tensely now that there were the occasional Fed and Rebel soldiers peppered in the way.

          Or, at least, he’s less tense at first.

          When suddenly he hears shouts and gunshots behind him.

          Donut whips around and there’s another hole in the wall, with burning, glowing red edges. A Rebel soldier is knocked to the ground and suddenly flies ten meters down the hall. Like he’d been kicked. Donut’s helmet alerts him of smoke a few seconds too late, and the blinking readouts are distracting. “Sarge!! He’s in the hall with me!” Three more soldiers are taken out in quick succession while Sarge barks back that he’s sending reinforcements, but Donut can pinpoint the dust trails now and shoots right at their opponent.

          His bullets hit home, and Donut prides himself for a moment on how great his aim is, as the camo unit of the soldier’s suit is damaged and their figure becomes completely visible.

          Well, Mr. Charon-Mook-in-the-Meta-suit doesn’t seem too happy that the advantage has been taken from him, and Donut barely has a moment to startle at the familiar armor before the soldier activates an alien plasma sword and-

          Wait-

                   An alien plasma sword?

          “Locus.” Donut’s voice is quivering. “That’d better be you in there!! Cause if you’re the fucker who killed Tucker, you’re in for the ride of your life!!”

          The soldier pauses and tilts his helmet a moment, like he’s surprised by Donut’s words, before Donut starts shooting again and hits the soldier’s unarmored wrist (again, _amazing aim_ , this one) and the stranger drops the weapon, plasma blade fizzling out the moment it leaves his hand.

          Suddenly Donut’s shooting at a yellow wall of hexagons and then it’s barreling into him. He’s knocked to the ground and his weapon skids across the floor as well. The soldier lunges back for his own weapon, but Donut’s not going to be able to reach his own in time so he kicks at the back of the man’s knee. He goes down awkward and hard, like he somehow doesn’t know what stumbling is.

          Donut jumps onto him and grapples for the upper hand, while four more of the Chorusian soldiers round the corner. Donut is thrown off when the mysterious man flips him over his head, but he’s closer to the sword now, and he kicks it flying past the soldier and the Chorus troops.

          Mr. Charon’s surrounded with no weapon. Might as well be polite, right?

          “Surrender!! You’ve got nowhere to go!” Donut declares, as he gets up. “Or we can shoot your keester full of bullets!! Your choice!”

          The soldier tilts his head again, like he’s bewildered. Then starts laughing, and he’s laughing on the open channel as the dust is settling, and it sounds horribly familiar, but it’s dark and perverted, and Donut can’t quite place the voice resonating in his helmet, and-

          The dust is settling.

          “Yes. It is _my_ choice.”

          The soldier disappears from view, and Donut immediately finds himself thrown down so hard that he _bounces_ off the concrete floor. The Chorus soldiers start firing blindly, now that Donut’s no longer in their line of sight, but they go down in seconds, the soldier’s camo unit flickers a few times, still damaged from Donut’s first round, but the seconds where he’s not visible have him moving impossibly fast and without a trace. Donut scrambles up and snatches up his rifle, waits for the split second where the soldier is visible and-

          He’s right in front winding up for a-!!

          Donut gets punched. Hard. It’s like he can feel his brain rattling inside his skull. But he grabs out in front of himself fast enough to catch the soldier’s white chest piece and pull him down on top of him. Donut can feel the mic in his helmet break against his chin upon landing.

          The soldier seems dazed for a split second, and Donut takes the opportunity to quickly roll them over.

          “Oh yeah! This is much better!” Donut says, holding the struggling man down. “Never let it be said that I don’t enjoy being on top!” And with that, he winds back, and punches and punches and punches with that famously powerful arm of his. The man tries to flip them a few times, or grab at his arms, but, Donut’s not budging till this fucker is out like a light-

          And Donut lands a hit so hard, so perfectly placed, that the bright golden dome of the helmet _shatters._

          And behind the helmet is dark skin, a square jaw, and thick lips, curled into a snarl.

          No way.

_It can’t be._

          Donut stops his assault, completely taken off guard. He can feel himself start to tear up against his will. He’s always been an ugly crier, but he rips off his helmet anyway, because his HUD _has_ to be playing tricks on him because the person beneath him appears to be-

          “Tucker!!??”

          Donut’s so transfixed, so lost in wonder, that when Tucker takes both hands and clubs Donut across the face, all he can think is _‘How?’_

          And then he drops, knocked out cold.

 

* * *

 

 

          It’s nothing like before.

          Before it was always… suddenly awake! In a weird, uncomfortable position. And not the kinds he likes, heheh. Bow chicka... Eh… You know.

          But now it’s more like- like he’s a big open space. He’s still not dreaming, or, if this is a dream, he’s as lucid as he’s ever been in one. Tucker can walk around. He can make out his hand in front of him, but the rest of the space is murky and dark. He waves it around, and inky trails follow his fingers, like a black fog is hanging around him, and he can’t see more than a few feet through it.

          He can hear voices though.

 _Those_ voices.

          Tucker wants to leave. He doesn’t want to be here.

          He begins to walk. No, he doesn’t know which direction, he just knows he has to move. Has to get out of here. The voices make him nervous. He moves away from them best he can, but the space echoes and it’s hard to tell what direction they come from. Moving is weird too. Sometimes it’s easy, like in the waking world (but he _is_ awake, this is all too real), and sometimes he hits a patch where the viscosity of the air suddenly changes, and it’s like swimming through molasses.

          Distantly, he hears a scream. It’s muffled, like coming from behind a closed door, down a hallway.

          Something tells him he knows the voice. But their name... Their name escapes him.

          But he knows their name has tinges of beige and… yellow... Gold..?

          Orange. Definitely orange.

          The other voices, _those voices,_ get a little bit closer. Tucker tries to run, but his legs are slow, so slow, and he hears a child. Feels their hand grab his wrist.

          Tucker whips his head around and tries to wrench his arm away, but the grip is strong. The kid is purple. Purple, but at the same time... completely normal looking. Like a kid you’d see on the street, with black hair and pale skin and scuffed shoes and a grass stained shirt and impossibly green eyes. Maybe 8 or 9 years old.

          He looks terrified.

          Tucker thinks of Junior, and immediately feels a surge of protectiveness, but this isn’t his kid. No. And the grip on Tucker’s arm is getting too tight. It hurts.

          The kid’s got something important to say, but Tucker doesn’t want to hear it and it’s like there’s cotton in his ears.

          “... Blocked us….. Need ….listen…”

          He shakes his head and shakes the kid off his arm, and the kid disintegrates. Fades into the blackness, his eyes ( _green, purple, green, purple_ ) the last thing to disappear.

          Tucker runs and runs through the fog. This time it’s easy, like running downhill. He never runs _into_ anything, but he’s starting to get scared at how he can’t seem to stop or slow down, and suddenly, after a few minutes or maybe a few days, there’s a yellow man before him and Tucker crashes into him. They tumble to the ground together, all the while Tucker smells dust and smoke and when it fades, it takes him a second to make sense of his swimming vision.

          Like the purple kid, the man is yellow, but not-yellow at the same time. He has the same green eyes, which Tucker can see very clearly since the man is grasping Tucker’s head in between his hands and is screaming something right into his face, but the louder and harder he yells, the less Tucker can hear. Tucker tries to push him away, but the man won’t let go.

          “... You have to…. Him!! …. get ... Stronger!!!”

          Tucker pushes harder. “I- I don’t know what you’re saying!! _I don’t know what you’re saying!!!_ ” The man vanishes, just like the kid, and the green eyes are burned into his vision and suddenly gravity is shifting, the world is rolling, and Tucker falls forward into-

          The fog is cleared! The smell of smoke and dust rushes back into his nostrils. He’s in armor… in the base, the base of a Tractor tower? _Right_ , he was on a mission- There’s debris all around and dust… Like a cave in?

          He notices he’s holding his sword and feels safe… until the fog rushes back up and Tucker is falling back into the space again. He lands on his knees this time. Fuck!

          He needs to get back! There was something important!

          He ventures forth looking for another break in the darkness. For anything.

          There was something _important._..

          Something warm, and crowded, and colorful. Something caustic and annoying and dramatic and familial and comfortable all at the same time. 

Something....

          The voices float back. And this time. This time Tucker just stops. He stops because he can see three more men in the fog. Tucker doesn’t want to hear. He doesn’t want to listen, but the dark purple man, bordering on black, _green eyes dark hair pale skin_ , blending with the fog and at the same time _not,_ storms over faster than Tucker can backpedal and he _reaches his hand through Tucker’s head_ and _grabs on to something_ and _oh jesus fucking christ the pain._ It hurts. It hurts like he’s being submerged in lava, and for one ridiculous second, that’s what Tucker thinks is happening. Every nerve ending is on fire, and everything is now _so bright_ because the fog does something very, very odd: Whole swathes of it clear at once, before being filled in again, and Tucker gets flashes of images and sounds through the pain, though he can hardly tell what they are, as his eyes are rolling up into his head.

_Blood on the floor. “Get away!!”  Blood on his hands. “Fuck you monster!!!” Cutting down a support beam and watching the ceiling cave in on a group of soldiers in beige, white, and black.  “Tucker?!!” Winding up to swipe at a voice familiar and annoying to him. “Get out of the way!!!” A voice he knows. “No!!!” A voice that’s his color..._

          And then the purple man _pulls_ and the cotton in his ears dissipates.

          “Are you ready to listen?” Says Omega.

 

* * *

 

          “Donut! Donut!! Come in!”

          Sarge can feel fear start to rear it’s ugly head when he gets no response. He glances nervously at the closet in which the two tractor beam Technicians are currently squeezed into with their computers and backups and he grips his shotgun a little tighter.

          They had to hold this room, it was their only shot!

_But the leader of red team never leaves a man behind!_

          It’s a war raging inside him, and Andersmith and Jensen and Polomo watch apprehensively, waiting for him to say anything.

          The wait ends up being in vain as the sounds of fighting start coming up the hall. The four of them turn their weapons towards the doorway, watching. Waiting. When a familiar face comes around the corner and steps into view.

_No way._

          Sarge’s heart nearly stops. Jensen and Andersmith gasp. Polomo drops his gun with a clatter, “T-Tucker!! You’re alive!!!” He shouts, immediately gushing tears. “I knew it!! I just knew you couldn’t be dead!!”

          Tucker hasn’t moved, and his face is suspicious and cold behind a broken faceplate. He looks unfamiliar in the white armor, and if it hadn’t been a face that Sarge’s known for over a decade, he isn’t sure he would have recognized the blue soldier right away.

          Sarge doesn’t lower his shotgun; something smells fishy about this.

          Jensen senses his hesitation and clutches her rifle more tightly. Andersmith just looks confused.

          Tucker’s face snaps into a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, unnatural and forced. Which Sarge supposes is a typical kind of smile for Polomo but there’s just something so _off_ here. Was this actually Tucker? Maybe he was a robot? Robots could look pretty good nowadays, Sarge would know…

          “Of course I’m alive... Did you think I wouldn’t find my way back?” Tucker says, walking over to the young rebel, but the words are slurred and the spellbound Palomo doesn’t see the danger.

          Jensen does.

          “Get out of the way!!!!”

          Tucker activates the sword in his hand and slashes upward, and would’ve cleaved Polomo in half if Jensen hadn’t sprung forward and shoved Polomo away with all her might.

          Polomo falls to the ground, shocked senseless, and Jensen falls on top of him, one of her arms missing.

          “Katie!!” Polomo shrieks, as what’s left of her upper arm splatters blood all over his chest. The wound had been cauterized on impact, but her awkward landing splits it open again.

          “I’m okay!” Jensen cries faintly. “I’m okay... I’m okay….” and it sounds more like she’s trying to reassure herself than anyone else.

          Tucker snaps his head up to the two soldiers still on their feet, in a movement that reminds Sarge of some sort of bird of prey. He kicks Jensen and Polomo both out of the way and bumrushes Andersmith at an impossible speed. Andersmith is knocked into the wall, but sidesteps and dodges Tucker’s sword, stabbed into the concrete he had just been up against.

          Sarge is, for the very first time in his entire life, wishing he had something other than his shotgun, since he can’t shoot without hitting the Lieutenant. Andersmith expertly knocks away the sword with his rifle, but the blade cuts through the magazine release and the weapon is rendered useless.

          Fists it is then!

          Sarge jumps into the fray, and between himself and Andersmith, they’re giving Tucker-Maybe-Not-Tucker a pretty good run for his money. Despite being freakishly strong from the meta’s suit augmentations, and unsettlingly coordinated, he remains outnumbered and with both Sarge and Andersmith so close to him, he can’t seem to get good leverage on either.

          Sarge is about to throw a right hook at Tucker’s head from behind, when white gloves grab his arm and throw him against the wall, smashing all sorts of important looking screens and computer equipment.

          Good thing everything _actually_ important is in the closet.

          As the stars leave Sarge’s vision and he manages to stumble back onto his feet he sees Tucker clock Andersmith across the face and use the seconds it takes for the man to reorient himself to send him flying out the window with a devastating kick. Polomo screams from where he’s trying to stem the blood flowing from Jensen’s arm as they’re bother showered in glass. Sarge allows himself a second to worry about the blue (and boy oh boy is that a phrase he never thought would pass through his head) rebel before Tucker rounds on the old man. For the first time in a long while, Sarge gets a proper look at his face. There’s no more babyfat around the man’s cheeks, a hard glint is in his eyes, and fuzzes of patchy facial hair pepper around his lips, curled into a sneer.

          “Now, son-” Sarge starts and Tucker rams his fist into his face. Then knees up into his chin, then drives his elbows back down into the the top of his head. Sarge tries to regain balance but Tucker (Not-Tucker?) doesn’t relent. A kick to the gut, a throw to the ground, Tucker’s too fast and Sarge can’t keep up. There’s jabs into his side and, oh boy, he hasn’t cracked his ribs like _that_ in a long time. Breathing in hurts his chest, but Sarge doesn’t even have time to think on that as Tucker fights to get at his throat. There’s blood coming up his nose and mouth and spilling into his visor as Sarge’s hands scramble to keep Tucker’s fingers away from his neck. Tucker changes tactics and when Tucker rams him into the wall, Sarge can feel the pop more than hear it as his arm get dislocated.

          He can faintly hear Polomo crying as Tucker hits him again, and again, and again. Sarge can feel _dents_ start to appear in his helmet.

          The sound of a rifle firing causes Tucker to snap away, and a yellow wall of hexagons is suddenly between him and Polomo, who’s got the gun raised and trained shakily on the man in the meta suit. His helmet must have gotten knocked off when Tucker kicked him before, and his face is covered in blood and tears. Tucker lets go of Sarge, who crumples to the ground hacking up blood, when Polomo keeps shooting.

          “L-leave him alone!” Polomo yells, voice shaking. “What’s w-wrong with you!?” He lowers the gun an inch and falters as Tucker draws near. Either out of ammunition, or terrified beyond reason.

          Tucker looks Polomo dead in the eye. He slowly grips the end of the barrel with both hands, and twists the metal upwards like it’s made of wire, as the young rebel watches in total fear.

          “There’s nothing wrong with _me_.” That odd slur again, like he doesn’t quite know how to form words, and then he slams the butt of the gun into the kid’s face. Polomo falls back, out cold.

          Tucker picks up his sword, and there’s too much blood spattered inside Sarge’s visor, but he can hear the swish of the blade activating and the eerie blue glow lighting through the mess spattering his vision. Then the crackling noise of heavy boots stepping on glass, as Tucker makes his way back over to him. Well, Sarge can’t stomach the idea of dying on the ground, beaten senseless, especially to a blue (well, honestly, he can’t stomach _anything_ right now and, oh, god, it hurts to laugh), so he does his best to get up, but then Tucker’s grabbing hold of his chestpiece and single handedly dragging Sarge’s weakly struggling body up into the air, sword in the other hand.

          It hurts to laugh, and it hurts to _talk_ , but Sarge does both anyways. “Gotta admit, Blue, never thought you had it in you.” His helmet feels claustrophobic and it occurs to him, _really occurs_ to him, that he’s taking his final breaths. “Well, y-you know what they say… today is a good day to die...”

          And Tucker freezes.

          For a solid minute and a half, Sarge is wondering when the white hot feeling of plasma running him through is going to come, but it just. Doesn’t.

          Suddenly gravity comes back, as Tucker lets go of his armor, and he falls hard to the ground. The sound of gunfire permeates the air and Sarge gets two glimpses of orange.

          “Get the fuck away from the old man!”

                   No.

                   Wait.

          Tucker come back! Not this! Anything but this! Sarge would rather die at the hands of a blue than be indebted to-

          Grif fires from the bruteshot and Tucker finally seems to snap to his senses. Well. Not enough to stop being a traitorous asshole anyways. He defends himself with his force field and bolts to the one exit not blocked by the newly arrived Grif and Bitters: the window.

          Grif rushes after him, but it’s too late, and as they peer out and spot Andersmith on the ground, leg at a bent, broken angle, trying to grab after the figure in white, Tucker activates his speed boost and tears out into the distance.

 

* * *

 

          The blue one one… Gamma, “Lavernius it’s of utmost importance that you hear us.”

          Delta steps forward and part of Tucker is just a little entranced by what he now knows is surely how Church thinks himself looking like if he were human. WIthout the familiar shell of armor acting as a barrier. All the fragments here have the same body. Gangly figure, wild hair, rectangular glasses (suddenly Church’s lack of ability with a sniper rifle becomes hilariously clear) … even the kid was the same person just… younger. But even without their colors they’re all still incredibly distinct. Omega’s posture is intimidating and anxious; hair messy, and his expression tight. Delta stands up straight with a serious look on his face, and his arms clasped behind his back. Gamma looks tired, but still has the hint of a smirk and more of a casual air about him. All aspects of Church so familiar, that Tucker’s earlier resistance and hesitation all melt away.

          Delta starts to speak, “We can’t say as much as we’d like-”

          Omega juts in, “Motherfucking prick cordoned us off!!!”

          “But this is the first opportunity we’ve had to directly contact you since this ordeal began.”

          “What do you mean?” Tucker asks, “What’s going on? Where’s Church?”

          “It’s been…. Difficult. To speak to you directly. It’s feels so good to finally make your acquaintance.” A different blue Church this time, smiling. The name comes unbidden to Tucker’s mind. Iota.

          “Why?” Tucker says, “I thought you- Church removed all the blocks?”

          At this, the Churches all cringe and only Omega seems able to spit out, “No... He... didn’t.”

          Tucker stands, shocked, as they all try to get their bearings again. There are flashes of light and consciousness filtering through the black as the figures around him twitch and flicker. And, like before, he can hear voices from what must be the waking world. He wants to look, wants to go, but a small hand grabs onto his arm and forces him to turn away.

          The kid steps out of the shadows. Theta. “Listen!! He’s gonna go to the aliens, Tucker!!”

          An orange Church, enveloped by flames appears as well. “He... thinks he can establish a presence with the Sanghelli. His plans extend far beyond escaping the confines of this system.” Sigma says. “Tucker you need to stop him. He’s going to- wants to-” And they all cringe again. Like something’s keeping them from talking and from what Tucker can tell, that’s exactly what’s happening.

          The light breaks through the fog at Tucker’s back, and Tucker can barely resist turning around and facing it. He can hear something, someone familiar but he needs to _know_. He focuses as hard as he can on the AI fragments even as the light burns away the fog at the edge of his vision. He can feel his heart pumping faster. “Hargrove? What does he have to gain with the Sanghelli? What does he want?”

          Omega’s hands are in fists clenched so tight that Tucker can make out the white of knuckle-bones through his skin. “It’s gotta- It’s gotta do with AI, Tucker-!” And while he falls to his knees, clawing at his own head, Sigma pushes forward and grabs Tucker’s shoulders, keeping him facing the fragments. “You have to figure it out! We can’t help you more. He won’t let us tell you!”

          “How is Hargrove doing this?” Tucker grabs Sigma’s wrists, holds tight, like he can squeeze out the answers. “How is he hurting you!?” but Sigma, _Church,_ just grimaces and shakes his head and Theta looks ready to cry and Delta’s eyes are so _green_ and this world is shaking and Tucker can’t ignore it anymore.

          He turns his head and looks outside and sees cracked glass and _red_.

 _“Today is a good day to-”_ comes muffled, distorted into his hearing.

 

Then the last of the black fog shatters and Tucker _remembers_.

 

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry all for the wait!!!
> 
> Really appreciate everyone's comments!! We're really getting into the swing of things here now! B)
> 
>  
> 
> Okay, so my big confession is that I originally planned for this to be some really wacky, out there, multimedia experience. I had like, plans involving Javascript and colored text, and in-line animations and just like. A really different way of experiencing a story, because I've never really written a cohesive, long fic before, and I wasn't very convinced in my ability to do it in a way that would be interesting, because, as most of you probably already know, I'm way more of a visuals based creator. Plus I figured it would be cool.
> 
> And then I made an AO3 account and realized how impossible that was going to be with the HTML and CSS limitations that I gave up and just said fuck it and started writing. I've had that drawing sitting around since before I even started this fic, this was the very first proper scene I actually thought up hahah.


	13. Chapter 13

_ “Not this time, buddy” _

 

 

 

 

  
< RECORDING >  
  
  
  


_ “Tucker. I’m sorry. I know, we made our peace back on Chorus, but I was really being a jerk. Running off again without a word. Without saying goodbye. I know you hate that. Probably more than Caboose. So I’m not making the same mistake this time. _

_ You know. I feel bad. In a way. We never actually hung out much. You’re one of my best friends… Wait, no....” Sighs, “Don’t rub it in Caboose’s face, alright? You are my best friend. You’re my best friend but we never really hung out. Sure I had memories, and ran years and years of that simulation in the AI Capture unit, but I never really hung out with  _ **_you_ ** _. It was all Alpha. And maybe you were able to tell the difference between us, so maybe you don’t really feel the same way about me but. I’m sorry. Sorry for not being Alpha. Sorry for leaving at every opportunity. Sorry for fighting with you. Some friend I’ve been, huh? _

_ I guess I just didn’t know where we really stood with each other. And I’m sorry now for it being too late to find out. I would hope… I would hope it’d have been like Blood Gulch. Shooting the shit. Dicking around and cracking jokes. Out of all the Churches I’ve been? Alpha, Epsilon, and Leonard? From all their memories? That’s probably the most content any one of us has ever been, in that stupid hot canyon. _

_ Well, other than when Carolina was born… but don’t tell her that. _

_ Yeah, I know Wash told you about Carolina being the Director’s daughter. For such a sneaky motherfucker, he can be pretty bad at lying. Also I heard you gossip it to Grif. You’d better hope She never finds out. _

_Keep an eye out on her for me, alright? And Caboose, and the Reds._

_And… Wash too._

_I fucked him up so bad, Tucker. I think… I think he could use a friend like you._

_ So… Yeah. Thanks for the memories, Tucker. Even if they were Alpha’s. Even if they weren’t really mine. _

_ All the shit with Freelancer, all the shit with the Director... _

_ You guys made it worth it. _

 

< END RECORDING >

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DOUBLE UPDATE. Kinda. Felt like this should stand by itself.


	14. Chapter 14

          The Communications tower was empty of any Charon soldiers. In fact, they didn’t really come near the place, on account of the fact that nobody had cleared out any bodies from the battle that had taken place here, and even the wild animals had stopped coming for the corpses; they were so decayed. The fried mantis droids had long been picked clean for scrap, by both the native Chorusians and the Charon soldiers alike. And the communications tower was inoperable without a key. No one had any reason to come this direction.

          But that doesn't mean that Locus appreciates his new guest’s habit of constant, incessant chatter. The ex-merc in constantly cringing at his new companion’s volume, certain a Charon patrol will hear and investigate, especially with how much closer they’ve crept up to their camp. Caboose was almost worse than… than...

          Locus violently suppresses the hurt that flares up suddenly in his chest.

          That part of his life is _over_ now.

          “So we called for a medic but that’s when Church died the first time…”

          “Shut. Up.” He growls, peering through this scope, tracking Charon goons in the valley below.

          Caboose completely ignores him and continues rambling some nonsense about ghosts. He's eating a ration bar from his pack, helmet off, in the open (and how in the world did any of these sim soldiers make it as long as they have?), and even while chewing the man doesn't seem to ever shut his mouth.

          “And yeah, then Doc showed up, and we weren't super happy about that because he's like, purple. Choose a color! Don't pick in between! It's not right! Anyways, so Doc shows up and Church gave me a bullet because he's my best friend, and it was a very thoughtful gift, but he delivered it a little bit too fast and that's how I lost my first pinky toe…”

          Locus half hopes that he'll choke on the granola, before remembering he's supposed to be a good guy now, and that's not the sort of thing good guys wish for.

          Though he doesn't want to admit it, some of the insights into the simulation trooper’s lesser known adventures are… Well, at the very least informative. Locus doesn't want to say entertaining, but the constant bewilderment and shock on his end from Caboose's stories can't really be attributed to anything else. If even half of what the blue says is true, and there are records backing a lot of it up, then it's no wonder he's and- and Felix had been thwarted again and again. The Red’s and Blue’s luck seems supernatural.

          “... But the only thing Doc really actually ever helped with was delivering Tucker's vampire baby.”

          Some masochistic part of Locus can't help but look up from his rifle, away from where a Charon shuttle is refueling from a ground camp, and stare at Caboose. “Come again?”

          “Going again!” Bits of granola fly out of the blue’s mouth as he shouts in response. “Yeah, Tucker and Andy and me and Crunchbite and Tex went on a journey and then Tucker said the sword was a key and then the sword made him pregnant?”

          Locus has to forcefully repress the urge to move his hand over his gut, and becomes uncomfortably aware of the weight of his own sword at his hip. “That's preposterous.”

          “No, the baby was not proportionate. His head was huge!” Caboose gestures with his hands. “But it's okay, Doc said that's normal, he'll grow into it.”

          Locus blinks, before realizing once again he's getting sucked into talking with a moron when there's more important things to be done. He looks back to the shuttle.

          Locus has been tracking Charon's movements for months. He's lost an uncomfortable amount of weight, living off of the local wildlife after his rations dried up, unable to excersize properly since he'd been for a long while still healing from the ordeal at the Purge Temple. The knife wound under his collarbone from Agent Washington still hasn't healed properly. The communication temple has kept him safe, and had a surprise supply of clean, natural, water, perhaps the rarest thing on Chorus. A refuge, really, for someone who has no place left to go. But, unable to leave, surrounded by enemy forces…

          it felt uncomfortably similar to a prison.

          It seems Hargrove has been slowly amassing troops on the ground, but for what purpose, Locus can't fathom. The obvious answer would be to attack the tractor towers that were obviously holding the Staff of Charon and the other battle freighters hostage in the lower atmosphere, but the nearest one, Beat Cliff, if Locus recalled correctly, was two days drive away. Much too far for an army this size to march to undetected.

          “So Local, were, uh, friends now right?”

          “No.”

          “Well, you're not fighting us anymore, right?”

          Locus doesn't want to talk about this. “I am currently on the side of the Chorisians. If I see anything they should know about, I will let them know.”

          “Ahhh.” Caboose nods knowingly. “So you're gonna tell them about that guy?”

          “What?”

          “That guy!! Over there.”

          Locus turns and points his scope and sees a familiar set of armor hopping out of another small Shuttle. While the common troops wore gray and red, this one was black with silver trim. Locus had only seen her a few times, when meeting with his employer, but had heard her name long before that. A ruthless, brilliant, efficient commander from the Great War. Locus supposes he shouldn't be surprised to see her here: there's probably no one else better suited to be a chief of security. Even in the private sector.

          “Hawley.”

          “Uh, no, you're pronouncing it wrong” Caboose takes the last bite of his bar and starts to tear the wrapper into tiny pieces. “It's ‘Harley’, and I don't know…. I think they look more like Kawasakis to me.”

          “Shut up.”

          So, Hawley was here… Hargrove must be desperate if he’s deploying her to lead the ground forces. But it still didn’t explain _why they’re all gathering here_?

          Freckles begins to whir and click, and a little light blinks on in Caboose’s prosthetic (which was admittedly impressive. Grey’s work, no doubt) before blurting out in it’s monotonous voice, “Alien energy source detected.”

          Locus frowns and studies the scene through his scope carefully. Being hauled out of the shuttle behind Hawley was a crate. A crate with a familiar orange glow leaking through the cracks.

          Of course.

          There were no more teleportation grenades on Chorus, as far as anyone knew, but Locus and Felix had sent back samples years ago. It’s been more than enough time for Hargrove’s people to have reverse-engineered them. It could very well be how he’s planning to transport this army.

          Locus has his intel.

          …

          He should make the call. No reason to wait.

          …

          He sighs, and backs out from his vantage point, crawling down the slope he and Caboose were hiding behind. Or, well, where Locus had been hiding, and then where Caboose had followed him to. He motions to his unwanted companion to head back to the Temple, and Caboose jams his helmet back on and waits impatiently for Locus to pack up. Which wouldn’t take all that long normally, but Locus also ends up picking up all of Caboose’s trash: ration bar wrappers, an applesauce container, and several juice boxes. He doesn’t want to leave any evidence that anyone was here, and, not for the first time, he wonders how on earth the Red and Blues have made it so far with how sloppily they operate.

          They head back the half mile or so to the temple, Caboose blathering on about motorcycles, Locus mentally preparing his message.

          It should be easy, shouldn’t it? No different than a report to control. Yet something is keeping Locus from forming the words, and when they enter the communications temple, Locus walks right past the console he would need to send a message to the United Armies of Chorus.

          Later, then.

          They head to the far side of the temple, where there is no chance of Charon noticing the light of a campfire once it gets dark. Locus pulls out his stash of weapons, looted the various corpses in the temple, and begins to inspect and clean them. Caboose drops onto the blanket on the floor he’d deemed his sleeping spot, fishes some old crayons and crumpled paper out of his backpack, and starts to draw, looking wistfully back in the direction of the Staff of Charon every so often.

          “So I thought Felix was your best friend.” Caboose says conversationally. Casually. Like it was something Locus wanted to talk about.

          The ex-mercenary freezes, almost drops his rifle.

          “Yeah, but you didn’t seem to want to go skydiving with him. And you didn’t hurt us. Why was that?”

          He didn’t have to answer. He could keep his mouth shut and ignore the moronic soldier, but the blue idiot had a way of making Locus’s brain turn off, even when he didn’t want to. Like he was leaking that simple-mindedness that made to world seem so straightforward, so easy, that a monster in gray and green who’d hunted and connived and kidnapped and caused nothing but harm to him and his companions, to the planet he’s been fighting to protect, becomes a friend with the clatter of an automatic, thrown to his partner’s feet in defiance.

          So before he can stop himself, the answer slips from his lips. A truth he’d been too cowardly to confront.

          “I didn’t want to die.”

          ...

          And there it was.

          He didn’t want to die. He was on the verge of being broken, useless. Felix had been callous, uncaring of the damage Locus had sustained from the fight with the Freelancers and the Purge Temple’s destruction. A cracked collarbone, a stab wound, four broken ribs, a twisted ankle, Bruises spanning his entire right side, a concussion. It was a miracle he hadn’t died even after leaving the Sim Troopers alive. Felix had wanted to use him up, spend him. Why? To save his ego? Put the simulation soldiers in their place? There was no victory to be had. Not at that point. They had been beaten, broken.

          What do people do with tools that are broken? They throw them away.

          Felix was going to throw both their lives away.

          What had happened to being survivors?

          Locus didn’t want to die.

          “Mmm, most people don’t.” Caboose tries to scratch his nose, forgetting the visor is in the way. “Happens anyways.”

          “But it didn’t _have_ to!” Locus can feel himself get riled up. “It was over! There was nothing else for us to do!”

          Caboose just listens.

          Locus takes a deep breath, “The mission was a failure. We were both injured. We should have retreated but he-” Shakes his head. “He wanted us to die for his petty vendetta. It wasn’t worth it. Not to me.”

          “Ah.” Caboose nods, like he understands or something. Preposterous. He didn’t know. Had no idea of what they’d been through, what they’d _done_ together. Felix had wanted the world kneeling at his feet, wanted the feeling of people’s lives in his hands and then crushing them to dust because he could. To advertise and exercise and flaunt his skills. Locus....

          Locus had wanted purpose.

          And they had found the one thing that benefitted the both of them.

          And now…

          Now this was his purpose.

          He should phone Kimball.

 

          He should.

 

          He doesn’t.

 

          Caboose digs out two more of his ration bars and hands one to Locus. There’s only three left. The bars had been a welcome break, but Locus will have to go out hunting again soon. Game was easily found, but hard to catch, and didn’t keep very well; the cool interior of the temple not cold enough to function as an icebox, and the hot outdoors too humid to dry meat.

          While Locus ponders their food situation. Caboose taps at his prosthetic leg.

          “What’s going on in there buddy?” He asks.

          Freckles responds slowly. A weird effect on the typically emotionless voice. “I’m... not sure yet Captain Caboose. I am picking up strange readings.”

          Confusion? From a VI? Locus’s attention snaps to Caboose. Something is wrong.

          “Sensors detect an AI signature.”

          Locus’s mind jumps to Santa, but the AI had refused to show itself since the Staff of Charon had arrived. Why would it resurface now?

          “It is faint. Two-point-three kilometers away, approaching from East-North-East at 70 kilometers per hour.”

          What the-!?

          That couldn’t be Santa.

          Locus grabs his scope and bolts to the ledge to get a better view. In the distance, breaking out of the hazy twilit sky, there are the flashing lights of a shuttle.

          Locus doesn’t startle when Caboose appears next to him suddenly, gazing out into the distance with a laser-like focus. And Locus doesn’t startle when Caboose shouts in delighted surprise.

          Locus _does_ startle when Caboose kneels, kneecap of his prosthetic flipping back, and a _fucking_ _rocket_ is primed and ready to shoot out of the man’s leg.

          “It’s Church!!”

          “Firing.”

          “Idiot!!!! What are you-” Locus starts, but it’s too late.

          There’s a THWOOOM noise as the rocket shoots out the barrel, and the two men stare in tense silence as the rocket sails to the ship, hits it’s mark with a brilliant explosion, and sends the shuttle spiralling down in flames. It lands somewhere in the jungle.

          There is two seconds of silence. Then-

          “WHY DID YOU DO THAT!?!?” Locus roars, no longer caring about his voice carrying; unless every single Charon trooper was deaf and blind, there’s no way they didn’t know something was up just past the Com Temple.

          Caboose grins before stuffing on his helmet. “We’re helping Church!”

          He grabs Locus’s arm in an unnervingly strong grip, and heads for the crash site at a crisp pace, dragging the dumbfounded ex-merc behind him.

 

* * *

  


          Tucker is running. He’s running and running and running, but he’s _not telling his legs to run._

          A surge of panic jolts through his mind as he finally, fully comes back into himself. He’s awake, aware. There are plants he’s brushing by, roots and rocks he’s jumping over. He can feel the wind blasting his face, and how his lips are dry and chapped, but _he’s not telling his legs to run!_

          In a moment of lucidity, he tries to shout for Church. All he gets in return is a feeling of anger and frustration.

          <Tucker!! I know!!! I can’t- I can’t do anything!!!> Church’s voice is loud and clear in the forefront of his mind, panicked and scared. Tucker’s focus starts to fizzle out again. Echoes of a voice, cracking, dying.

          Oh God, _Sarge_.

          The next thing Tucker knows, he’s on the ladder up to the Shuttle to take him back to the Staff of Charon. This strikes him as wrong, and disappointing, and _unfair._ But in this moment he can’t pinpoint why. He also can’t stop his arms from climbing. Part of him wishes the sword at his hip would just come to life on it’s own and just cut the ladder, so he’d be safe on the ground. He’d rather fall than go back, but _he can’t stop his arms from climbing_.

          He’d rather fall...

          The sky is yellow though. That’s good. He knows that’s good, for some reason.

          He’s seated by the crew. Strapped into a harness, like usual. The Charon goons don’t bother taking off his armor this time, maybe they see how absolutely out of it he is, Tucker doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Can’t bring himself to care when-

          He’s scared of blacking out again. He doesn’t know when he’ll wake up, _where_ he’ll wake up. Who’s neck would it be in his hands next time? Who’s blood would be running down his arms?

          Grif? Kimball? _Wash_?

          Tucker feels sick. People around him are shouting, but all he can think of is Wash. Confused. Disoriented. On his hands and knees, without his helmet, choking in the thick black smoke of that basement hallway. No Carolina this time, and Tucker’s boot is pushing him down to the ground… Stepping on his throat...

          The shuttle lurches, and Church is screaming, but Tucker isn’t listening. Gravity shifts and his arms snap up, braced for impact, and in the moment before the shuttle crashes, one thought runs through Tucker’s mind, breaking through his bleak thoughts.

          He didn’t tell his arms to move.

 

* * *

  


          When Tucker wakes up the first thing he notices is that everything fucking hurts.

          Like. Literally everything.

          His legs feel bruised, his arms both feel like they’ve been popped out of their sockets (a twitch of his shoulder’s tell him they’re not), his spine feels like he’s been sleeping on rocks for a week, and his face is hot and wet and stinging. And that last bit is not a simile: when Tucker’s eyes drag open he immediately snaps them shut again from the blood dribbling in. Great.

          Fuck, he hasn’t felt this wrecked since Tex beat the shit out of him and the Reds.

          He rolls off his back and gets onto his hands and knees best he can, and the second thing he notices is the silence.

          Not around him, his ears are fine; there’s the crackling of fire, the creak of metal heating up too quickly, and the chirping of insects.

          No, but it’s silent in his head. The buzzing, heavy, constant presence of Church is gone.

          Tucker panics. Calls out for Church in his mind, and when that isn’t loud enough, with his voice. No response.

          Shit, shit!

          He’s able to wipe the blood out of his eyes, his gauntlet catching on the broken edges of the helmet’s visor, and his eyes can finally focus.

          The remains of the shuttle are littered around him. Twisted, bent pieces of debris interspaced by the broken bodies of crewmembers. Two of the guards lay twenty feet away, one run through the chest with part of the hull, and the other wrapped around a tree. Tucker idly thinks there should be two more when the sound of gunshots pierce his hearing. Tucker swears and scrambles to cover as fast he can but it’s not fast enough because someone yells, “FREEZE!”

          Tucker freezes, raises his arms. The voice tickles the edge of his mind, like it’s familiar....

          He slowly turns around and his vision gets overwhelmed with-

          Blue?

          “Oh my god.” Tucker’s voice cracks. “Oh my fucking GOD, Caboose!!!”

          And in Caboose’s life of confusion, misunderstanding, and obliviousness, he will never, ever be as shocked and confused as when Tucker barrels over and initiates a full bodied hug with him.

          But he’s happy to see Tucker too.

          He says so, “I’m happy to see you too Tucker!” Pats him awkwardly on the helmet. “I guess?”

          “Hahaha… Asshole...” Tucker mutters into Caboose’s neck, and god, shit, he’s tearing up and hiccupping from swallowing down the sudden rush of feelings bubbling up inside him and this is probably embarrassing but, fuck it, he missed this idiot.

          He slides back out of Caboose’s arms and for the first time notices that he’s not alone. The grin immediately snaps off his faces and he’s fumbling for his sword- which is not at the magstrip at his hip; it must have flown off somewhere during the crash. Instead he does his best to tug Caboose behind him.

          “Caboose! Get behind me!!” Tucker puts himself between his teammate and Locus, who has the sight of his rifle lined right up on them.

          Tucker expects some grim monologue about the foolishness of sentimentality or some other generic villain shit before getting his gut filled with lead (And fucking SHIT he did NOT get this far to get murdered by a backstabbing merc!!), but Locus tilts his head in recognition and lowers the gun, and- _Jesus fucking Christ_ \- Tucker _hates_ that he’s becoming so familiar with the feeling of crashing after an adrenaline dump.

          “Lucks! I found Tucker!!” Caboose chirps.

          Locus ignores Caboose. “Captain Tucker,” He says. “This is… Unexpected.”

          Tucker glares and doesn’t lower his guard. “You can fucking say that again! What the fuck are you doing here? Why is _Caboose_ with you?”

          “I’ve been staking out the Staff of Charon and Hargrove’s main ground camp. Captain Caboose here was going to storm the castle, alone, in search of your AI friend. I figured that was… inadvisable.”

          Caboose gets up in Tucker’s face. “Is he with you Tucker!? Can he come out?” He takes a deep breath and- “HELLOOOOOO CHURCH!!!! I AM GLAD YOU ARE BACK!!!!”

          If anything could wake a sleeping AI, it should have been that.

          But Church remains silent, and Tucker’s stomach drops.

          “Y-yeah, Caboose, Church is with me.” Tucker starts, and- oh no, Caboose is bouncing on his feet in excitement. “I think he got rattled around in the crash, I think he’s knocked out cold. Some. Some real weird shit has been happening to me, man…”

          At this Caboose settles down and inspects Tucker in that weird way that he only ever tends to look at machines. What had Wash called it? Technopathy?

          Freckle’s voice blasts out of Caboose’s armor. Tucker can’t immediately tell where, but it seems to be coming from…. Caboose’s pants?

          “ _Presence of AI Fragment Epsilon confirmed._ ”

          “Some real weird shit happening with you too, apparently.” Tucker comments flatly. Honestly? He thinks he’d rather not know.

          Caboose doesn’t respond for a while and then, “...Yeah. Church is asleep.” He hangs his head and kicks the dirt morosely.

          Tucker feels kinda bad, though part of him’s miffed about not getting that enthusiastic a reception. He’d been gone for... been gone for…

          “Locus. How long has it been since the Staff of Charon arrived?” Tucker ventures carefully.

          “Four months. Two days.”

          Tucker’s mind grinds to a screeching halt.

          “FOUR MONTHS!?!?!”

          “And two days!” Caboose adds helpfully.

          “Jesus fucking christ!!” Tucker sits down on a log. Hard.

          This is insane! He’s been a prisoner for four months!?!? That can’t possibly be right… By his count it had only been around two!

          A horrible thought occurs to Tucker. He’d assumed all his blackouts had only been for a few minutes or hours at most. But how could he be sure? He thought Church had been keeping track for him, but Church has been acting so weird, and how is Tucker sure Hargrove didn’t mess with him too? He remembers the words of the epsilon fragments.

_It’s about the AI, Tucker!_

          Church couldn’t talk to him directly… He’d needed to use separate pieces of himself to communicate. Hargrove _had_ messed with him. Church thought he could change up all the programming blocks but either there were more in place that Church couldn’t access, or Church couldn’t find. Shit. They’d thought they’d had some kind of upper hand but… Shit.

          “Tucker… are you okay?”

          Tucker shakes his head. “No Caboose. I’m really not. I’m really… really not.”

 

* * *

 

          Locus suggests they move. Charon’s forces were, doubtless, on their way to the crash site to pick up the scrap and remains. The trees of the jungle would only slow them down for so long. Tucker finds his sword hilt amongst the rubble and they set off towards the Com Temple.

          Tucker describes his experience with Hargrove’s hospitality as best he can on the way. Caboose actually listens for once (probably because Church is involved), and Locus asks few questions. Tucker asks a few of his own and finds out that Wash had survived the first raid on the Tractor Towers from Caboose. Tucker feels a huge weight lift from his shoulders, which is immediately replaced with an only slightly lighter weight when Caboose informs him that the last he knew, Wash was in a coma.

          Fuck.

          A few minutes after Tucker reaches the end of his tale, Locus drops a bombshell.

          “It was meant for me, you know.”

          “What?”

          “The Hephaestus Armor.”

          Tucker immediately feels like ribbing Locus on his apparently tiny dick (His crotch was _still_ suffocating in this thing) but he’s still not entirely convinced the ex-merc isn’t going to kill him. Better not press his luck.

          “So why didn’t you get it?” Tucker asks. Might as well see where this is going.

          “Hargrove didn’t have a capable AI to run it.”

          Tucker goes quiet. Shit. They’d practically delivered Church in a fancy, teal/aqua/cyan colored box. A teal/aqua/cyan colored box with a great ass, mind you, but still.

          “It’s why I’ve been monitoring the Staff of Charon. I heard about your demise and the AI’s likely capture by listening to the Chorus Army’s channel through the Com Temple. I figured Hargrove would go forward without me. I just didn’t expect it to be you.”

          “Yeah, well, don’t be jealous. It fucking sucks.”

          Locus is silent. And Tucker worries he’s just gonna kill him then and there to get the armor anyways. Caboose notices the tension and digs through his pack for something.

          He hands Tucker a ration bar.

          Orange flavored.

          Tucker chucks it at his face, and it hits Caboose's visor with a resounding THWACK. He snatches the chocolate-walnut flavored one out of his hands, ignoring the man’s protest. Tucker tears at the wrapper like an animal. Takes a huge bite. The taste is godly. He could fucking cry.

          “So anyways.” Big swallow. Damn that’s good. “Have you at least learned anything from sitting on your ass and playing peeping Tom? Is Hargrove actually bald or does he shave it? Does he have an orange fetish or someth- Wait. Wait. Nevermind. I don’t wanna know if he’s personally fucked every orange I ever ate. I really don’t.”

          He takes another bite while Locus responds. “You are disgusting.” Tucker can practically feel the eyeroll and suddenly, he really misses Wash.

          “Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.”

          “Hargrove’s managed to transport over half his troops to the ground camp from his various freighters. Number’s around seven hundred soldiers. More than enough to overrun any of the Chorusian outposts, even without vehicles. I discovered today that the head of Charon’s security has joined the ground forces, along with a crate of reverse engineered teleportation grenades.” Locus sounds smug. “I take it you didn’t know that.”

          Okay. Well Locus has him there.

          “Well, since you’re using your powers for good and all: Have you told Kimball yet?”

          Locus’s hesitation in answering is an answer in and of itself. Tucker rounds on him, suddenly furious.

          “Oh! Oh that’s real rich!”

          “I was going to-”

          “Yeah!? And you told her about the seven hundred soldiers too? Or were you just spending all that time spying on her frequencies? Who’s fucking side are you on, asshole!?”

          “I’m trying to redeem myself! It takes time!!” Locus is trying to keep the shout out of his voice but is falling just short.

          ”Oh! I’m sorry!! Did you think babysitting Caboose was gonna absolve you of planetary genocide!?” Tucker spits. “Tell me, did you even think about bringing him back? Or were you too scared of Kimball putting you behind bars?.”

          “I… I can’t help repair what I’ve-”

          “IT’S NOT!! ABOUT!!! YOU!!!!” Tucker roars in Locus’s face. “It’s about what you did to those people!! You talk so big about wanting to make things better; Has it ever occurred to you, even once!? That the best thing you can do to make things right is take some fucking responsibility? You tricked and killed the people on this planet. They don’t want your _help_ , they want justice! The only thing you’ll ever be in their eyes is the the fucking villain, and the best thing you can do for them is to go sit in a jail cell so they don't have to worry about you anymore!!”

          Locus is dead silent. After a minute, he turns and looks away.

          Tucker can’t believe this is happening. The terrifying, murderous beast who hunted and killed his friends in Tucker’s nightmares before Felix’s betrayal, was nothing more than this pathetic, selfish man. “You haven’t changed a bit.” Tucker spits. “You’re as much of a goddamn coward now as you ever were with Felix.”

          Locus clenches his fists, and Tucker thinks that’s it, he’s snapped, and he’s gonna die now. But Locus turns his head away and continues to walk through the trees, past where Caboose is watching nervously.

          They walk in silence for a few more minutes, before the sound of a pelican draw closer and closer. The group tries to throw it off by changing direction several times, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

          “They’re tracking _me_.” Tucker realizes, after their fourth attempt at doubling back.

          “What?” Caboose asks.

          “With all the stuff in my head? Just try to tell me there isn’t a fucking homing device.” Tucker buries his face in his hands. Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

          Locus knows what it means. He carefully puts his hand on Caboose’s back and tries to steer him away from Tucker, back towards the temple. Caboose doesn’t quite get it.

          “Tucker, why aren’t you moving?” He asks.

          “I can’t come with you Caboose... They’ll kill you guys.”

          “But.. I just found you! And Church! I haven’t said hi to Church yet!”

          Tucker hates this. _Fuck_ , he hates this.

          “I know buddy,” He chokes out. “I promise you, when Church wakes up, I’ll let him know you said hi. We’re gonna see each other again? Alright? All of us. All of Blue team, okay?”

          Caboose stumbles over and throws his arms around Tucker’s neck.

          “Okay Tucker.” he mumbles into the top of his helmet.

          “You let Wash know, okay? You let him know what’s going on. You guys come get me, yeah? We’ll take down Charon and we can all be together again.”

          Caboose nods stiffly, and they stay like that till the sound of the Pelican nearing becomes too loud, too close.

          Tucker reluctantly pushes Caboose away and stands there, staring, as blue and gray silhouettes vanish into the shadows of the jungle.


	15. Chapter 15

          Wash wakes slowly to the feeling of fingers running through his hair. He doesn’t know where he is, _when_ he is, or what’s happened, but the slow, gentle warmth running over his scalp grounds him until it comes back to him, piece by piece.

          A smoky dark hallway on a ship? No, he'd been in a basement.

          Alarms and the tilt of gravity? No, phantom sensations, burned into his memory a long time ago.

          Maine reaching out to help him? No, it- Maine was-

          Wash slowly opens his eyes to see a blur of fire-red and teal. Carolina is staring at him, one hand on his head. She looks terrible, but smiles softly at him as his eyes focus, and the worry lines around the corners of her mouth, the dark circles under her eyes, become crisp and clear. “Welcome back.”

          “Hey Boss,” He replies, and jesus christ, his voice sounds terrible, like he’s been gargling sand. His throat doesn’t feel much better. “Water..?”

          Carolina fiddles with her side armor pouch, unscrews the top of the water bottle she pulls out, and brings it to Wash’s lips. Thank God for the boss… Wash gulps down carefully, the cool liquid soothing his burning throat, it’s a blessed relief.

          His arms automatically jump a little to take the bottle from Carolina, but something holds them back. She quickly tilts the bottle away when Wash jerks up to look at his hands, keeping it from spilling all over his face. Mostly.

          “You had… fits… While you were asleep.” Carolina explains as Wash sputters. “Doc said it was like when you were holding him captive with the Meta.” Wash’s stomach roils with guilt and unease, and lies still. “You kept scratching, so Grey put in restraints… I can take them off now, if you’d like.”

          Wash takes in the tight, sticky feeling on his skin as he becomes more and more aware of his body. There’s a bandage on the back of his head, slightly pulling at trapped hairs, covering his implants, and his front feels slimy and odd. Looking down the opening of his hospital gown reveals a salve covering his chest and up to what feels like under his chin. The paste is opaque, but Wash can see the healing claw marks underneath and feels ashamed. He doesn’t look at Carolina, but nods, and she moves to unstrap his wrists.

          “I hate to make you speak, Wash,” Carolina says. “The smoke inhalation really did a number on your larynx, but what was the last thing you remember?”

          “Maine.” Wash says immediately. The white armor, the golden dome of that visor, it was still burned into his corneas. “Wasn’t Maine though.”

          Carolina grimaces. “No." She says. "Wasn’t Maine.” 

          A silence falls over them for several minutes while Carolina releases his arms. Wash can’t decide if it’s comfortable or uncomfortable. He feels like it should be uncomfortable, like he's forgetting something, but he’s in a warm bed, and honestly feeling exhausted, he can’t help but start to doze off, lulled to the edge of sleep by the humming of a fan somewhere.

          Wash notices a noise, and drags his eyelids back open. Carolina is fidgeting. Honest-to-God _fidgeting._ Carolina never fidgets. Even on the edge of unconsciousness, Wash’s sense of unease grows past his desire to pass out. And he wants to ask why she’s acting so oddly, but something tells him he needs to figure it out. So he thinks, pieces bits together until it hits him.

          “You… You aren’t supposed to be here,” He says. Swallows. Wishes he had more water. “Why aren’t you off at one of the other posts? Grey… Doc. They’re at HQ. _We’re_ at HQ. Right?”

          Carolina nods, her expression breaks down into a sad smile.

          “So why are you here? You’ve gotta- gotta-” And that’s too many words apparently. Wash tries to suppress the urge to cough but he doesn’t quite get it, and the shaking of his chest shoots enough pain up through his throat that he sees stars. In seconds Carolina is there with the water bottle and Wash downs the rest in three frantic gulps.

          Carolina waits for him to calm down. “I’m here for selfish reasons, to be honest.” She leans back in her chair, and lets out a long breath. “After Alto was taken down, they sent out Grif and Caboose to reinforce the Beat Cliff station… Caboose ran off about a week and a half ago and never arrived. We don’t know where he is or where he could be.”

          Ice creeps into Wash’s veins.

          “W-What… what did you just say?” He says.

          “I-I’m saying,” And her eyes flutter back and forth, unable to hold his gaze, but doing her best to. “Caboose is MIA.”

          “No.”

          “I’m _sorry_ , Wash.”

          No no no no.

          Caboose. Church. _Tucker_ . Fuck fuck fuck…. And on the surface, Wash doesn’t believe it, it’s _Caboose,_ how could anyone lose track of _Caboose?_ But he’s taking deep, shuddering breaths and fuck. It’s happened. It’s happened _again._ He’s the last one.

          “Why? How did this happen? _Who let this happen!?_ ”

          “Wash-”

          “No- I- We have to go find him- I have t-” And Wash is coughing again. Carolina pulls out another water bottle but Wash knocks it out of her hand with a sound of frustration. Carolina waits for the fit to end before speaking.

          “Wash, do you honestly think I’d rather be here, than out there looking for him!?" Carolina looks frustrated now. Angry. Upset. Wash can't pin it down. DOesn't quite care to.  "We can’t- We can’t afford it”

          Wash stares. "What do you mean?"

          “Sarge… Donut… Grif. We haven’t heard from them in twelve hours. Everyone’s just kind of waiting for the nukes. Kimball hasn’t come out of her office the whole time. Simmons just sits in the transmission room, waiting...”

          “So then why is you being here selfish?” Wash mutters.

          “No one’s willing to do their jobs anymore, I should- I should be rallying everyone. Getting us all back on our feet for a final stand but…” And Carolina’s choking up and hiding her face behind her hair, and Wash has never, ever seen her like this. “Caboose is gone. The other reds are most likely gone. Tucker is gone. Church is gone...” She leans her head on his arm, and mumbles. “But you’re still here.”

          It feels wrong, he wants to stay mad, it feels- It feels like-

 

_He breaks the news to his little girl. Mom’s gone away again, and this time she’s not coming back. Her cry is silent. She comes up to him and rests her head against his arm and shakes and shakes and shakes. His hand reaches for the top of her head, and his thumb brushes her hair behind her ear. The shaking doesn’t stop, but he realizes the tremors aren’t coming from the child seeking comfort, and traces their epicenters to his own heart..._

 

          Wash jerks into alertness with his thumb holding back Carolina’s bangs. Her forehead is heavy on his arm, and she is fast asleep.

          He brushes through her hair with his fingers, their positions reversed from how he woke up. He notices the roots are a muddy, dark brown, and part of him is surprised, but another part of him knew, always knew, that little girl wasn't a redhead. He thinks of Caboose's curls. Of Tucker's short, stylish buzz. Wonders what it would have felt like under his hands.

          He thinks of South's purple tips. Of York's hair, so thick, he broke combs constantly. Connie's wispy half shave. Maine's shiny bald head.

          But he's not the last one; Carolina shifts the tiniest bit on his arm.

          Yeah.

          He’s glad she’s still here too.

 

* * *

 

 

          The walk back to the temple is uncomfortable. Tucker's intuition had been correct, and the pelican that had been tracking him through the jungle doesn't bother following after the other two soldiers. The sounds of the ship hovering, and then taking off for The Staff of Charon once again, leave an unexpected heavy feeling in Locus's gut.

          Caboose’s crying does nothing to alleviate that feeling.

          The sobs taper off into sniffles as they draw nearer to the temple once again. Locus reaches their campsite, so hastily abandoned. He can see the hall to the comm panel out of the corner of his eye. He determinedly ignores it.

          The heavy feeling grows.

          The fire pit is down to smoldering coals, and as Caboose sits heavily down in his sleeping space, Locus kneels down to try to bring the fire back to life. He pulls off his helmet to blow sparks into a batch of fresh kindling. Willing the dry twigs and grasses to catch flame, he stares a moment at the soft orange lights that oscillate in tune with his breathe.

          Orange lights.

          A big chunk of Charon's ground camp probably went to go investigate to crash site.

          Orange lights...

          A plan begins to form in Locus’s mind.

          “Caboose,” he says, standing back up suddenly, snapping his helmet back over his head. “Get up. We're going back out on the field.”

 

* * *

 

          Sneaking by Charon soldiers is barely a challenge with Locus’s camo unit. The trouble is getting  Caboose to where they need to be, unseen.

          Normally ‘unheard’ would have been Locus’s concern, but Caboose has gone sullen and silent since leaving Tucker behind. This should have Locus as close to ecstatic as he gets.

          But Caboose is lethargic. Not paying attention. Barely listening to Locus’s commands. Twice now Locus has had to throw a rock or redirect a patrol’s attention to keep Caboose from being discovered. Charon’s camp is large, but Locus was correct in his assumption that it would be mostly understaffed. The only densely populated areas are the barracks, so they sneak around the edges; keeping to the shadows behind tents and vehicles until they hit the loading zone.

          Locus yanks Caboose back behind a Warthog as another group of soldiers wander by, laughing about something. He counts to five after they round a corner and pulls Caboose back out to slink over to a large tent’s entrance, and they duck behind the first pile of crates he sees. He can hear voices.

          “...asset Z is once again in custody, ma’am.”

          “And the pair of soldiers he was spotted with?”

          Hawley.

          “No sign of them, ma’am. The asset was being… uncooperative,” The unknown soldier says with an air of frustration.

          “Uncooperative?” Hawley asks.

          “Well,” Starts a new voice. “He started to make lewd comments about Co-Captain Stein’s breasts, and you know how Sokolov has a huge crush on her, so he tried to tell him off and then he spit in his face, but then Captain Tuck- I mean, Asset Z headbutted him, and his visor was all broken so Sokolov’s face got shredded and he bled on Rodgers and Rodgers is a huge pussy about other people’s blood so then _he_ started screaming and then-”

          “Owolabi, focus!” Hawley snaps. Locus peers over the top of the crate to see the older woman faced off with two soldiers. She’s leaning over a desk, looking all the fearsome authoritarian that she is, her subordinates look like sheepish children in comparison. Like middle schoolers in the principal's office.

          “Sorry ma’am!” Says the shorter of the two. “Either way we were unable to follow. The last the pilot saw, they were heading towards the alien temple.”

          There is silence for a moment, before Hawley speaks again. “The only reason anyone would go to the temple… One of them is the traitor, Locus. He has the other alien key, he’s the only one who can activate it. It’s most likely that Kimball knows we’re here.” Locus stills. “Very well then, we’ll have to move out soon. Have we extracted the location of their headquarters yet?”

          “Tech says they’ll have it within the hour.”

          “While we wait on them, send a strike team to the temple. No loose ends. I want those two dealt with. Bring me the key. If anyone activates it before then, kill them.”

          No turning back now.

          Unfortunate.

          One of the soldiers rushes past them on their way out. Locus shrinks back, but it doesn’t seem like he'd noticed the two infiltrators at all.

          Locus pushes down on Caboose’s shoulder to signal him to stay, but Caboose is morosely leaning against the crate, barely paying attention, anyways. Locus turns on active camo and stalks out silently.

          Hawley is clearing some things off of the desk, while the other lackey seems to be confirming something over radio. The tent looks even bigger on the inside than it did outside, and there are soldiers scattered throughout, cataloguing or unloading supplies from hundreds of crates. Locus scans the area until he finds what he’s looking for...

          There.

          It’s, unfortunately, way out in the open. Directly in the line of sight of Hawley and at least four other soldiers. Not surprising, given the value of it’s contents, but getting it open without being seen will take time that Locus isn’t sure they have. He hurries over to the crate, and runs a finger along a miniscule gap in the side, the camouflage perverting the orange glow of the teleportation grenades with an odd ripple.

          Locus feels a nail jutting out slightly on a panel on the side. He diverts power to his armor’s strength enhancement in his glove at a minuscule rate. The faster he does this, the less effective his camouflage will be. He grips the nail as best he can and slowly, slowly,works it out. A obnoxious creak in the wood has him pause, with his heart beating in his ears, while a nearby soldier looks up from stacking ammunition, staring in his general direction. After a moment, they get back to work. Locus counts to thirty, and then manages to get the rest of the nail out without a sound.

          The second nail comes out quietly, but is more difficult to dig out initially, since it’s been properly hammered in. Locus has to use the sharp edge of his gauntlet to get enough leverage to pry it out. Now that the nail is gone, he can open the board enough to reach inside. Except he can’t, because Hawley and her Owolabi are coming over.

          He crouches, still as he can. All power to camo.

          “Alright this will only take a moment, ma’am.”

          Owolabi’s got their datapad held out over the crate and Hawley’s got a crowbar. She pries off the entire top, and tosses it loudly aside.

          Locus feels a little ridiculous with the two nails still held in his palm. He also can’t help but peek inside.

          The reverse engineered grenades look… a lot more like grenades. Small and spherical, about the size of an orange, with the ominous, orange glow emitting from a glowing ring around their middles. And there are _hundreds_ of them.

          Owolabi’s datapad sends out a white laser that scans over the entirety of the box a few times. The laser turns green and goes off again. “Destination programmed, ma’am!”

          “You’re entirely sure these will send us to the Chorisian army headquarters?” Hawley is eyeing the balls suspiciously.

          “I- I would count my life on it, ma’am!!” Owolabi stutters.

          “If we end up in a volcano or the ocean you can bet it _will_ be you life.”

          “Oh, we can go home now?” Locus’s stomach plummets at the voice. _That idiot!_ “That’s good. I was ready to go home anyways.”

          Hawley and Owolabi jump a good three feet in the air and spin around to see Caboose towering behind them. Owolabi drops the datapad and pulls out a pistol in a split second, while Hawley shoves on her helmet and pulls out her rifle. The other soldiers in the area take notice and start shouting and running and arming themselves.

          Locus swears loudly, and grabs a handful of teleportation grenades and stuffs them in his armor pouches fast as he can. Hawley rounds on him, helmet turning side to side like a raptor honing in on it’s prey. Like how one learns to look for someone using active camo. “You!!” She yells, voice rattling with fury, and brings up her rifle level with his head. “Traitorous merc scum!”

          Locus leaps over the crate, dropping something in, while tackling Hawley. Her shot misses his head, but gets him in the shoulder, he’s so full of adrenaline he barely notices the pinch of the bullet. He knocks her over into Owolabi, who’s missing every shot they fire at Caboose, thanks to Freckles jerking his body around like some freak, reverse, dancing marionette puppet. Locus rolls and lands into a crouch next to the blue sim trooper.

          “Me.” He repeats after Hawley. “Traitorous _ex-_ merc scum.” and he throws two things to the ground.

          A teleportation grenade, and, thrown out of the collapsing wormhole of space-time, a pin.

          To an actual grenade.


	16. Chapter 16

 

          After Carolina decides to try and have a talk with Kimball, Wash decides he’s sneaking out of the infirmary. About an hour after Carolina leaves the room, he carefully removes the IV from his arm, pulls on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants he finds in a drawer, and heads towards the corner of the base where he, Caboose, and the Reds had bunkered up for the two or three days they’d all been here.

          He, thankfully, avoids running into anyone on the way there. The few times he hears people down a hallway, he ducks into empty rooms until they pass. He’d rather not have to explain his state of dress: It couldn’t be more obvious he shouldn’t be prowling the base. He’s still got guaze taped to the back of his head, he clearly hasn’t shaved in days, and he’s barefoot, for fuck’s sake. So he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding once he has his hand on the door.

          Stepping into the room is… haunting. To say the least.

          Only two of the bunk beds still look lived in. Doc’s and Simmons’s, Wash assumes. There’s a pack of cigarettes half peeking out from under the covers on the one closest to the door. Doc never shuts up about the hazards of cigarettes... When did Simmons start smoking?

          Wash pads over to the storage closet and sighs in relief when he finds his armor hung up neatly inside. He changes into the undersuit quickly, feeling safer somehow as the compression of the suit presses on his skin. The rest of the armor quickly follows.

          Before he puts his helmet back on, Wash notices a small box covered in stickers in the corner of the closet. In big, bold crayon letters across the top it says “DO NOT TUCH”. Except “DO NOT TUCH” has a line through it and underneath, in neater handwriting, is the phrase spelled correctly.

          Wash’s heart skips a beat when he recognises the angle of the letters. How could he not? He made his capital “T”s the same way, starting with a lowercase before remembering the line goes through the top, resulting in something that could be a messy “F”, right after freelancer. Right after Epsilon.

          Church’s handwriting.

          It hits him at once. He did it _again_.

          He barely spared a thought to what Caboose had been going through. The moment he had a mission again, an objective, Wash shut out everything else around him. He’d left for Alto and he hadn’t even told Caboose _goodbye_. Had played board games and sat with him, but hadn’t once brought up what he must have been going through, losing his teammates, his friends, because-

          Because that meant Wash would have to go through it too.

          He settles down on the nearest bed (Donut’s, he would guess, from the faded, light, flowery fragrance) and sits the box down on his lap. Opening it up he’s immediately overwhelmed with the odd, earthy scent of crayons; the box is full of them. There’s also a few photos, a lot of paper, a book, an old, beaten up miniature printer, sticker sheets, two plastic dinosaur figurines, several bullet casings, and, horrifyingly, a shriveled up toe in a jar with a smiley face on the lid.

          Wash can’t help but make a face at the jar. He sets it on the floor, and picks up the photos, feeling slightly guilty.

          But if there’s any way to find Caboose... it’ll be in this box.

          The first couple are recent. Washington sees Kimball and Andersmith and the other Lieutenants. There are several other New Republic soldiers that Wash doesn’t recognize. There’s a photo of him, going over some papers in the cafeteria, while Sarge eats soup across from him. Caboose is holding a red apple over Sarge’s face, and it’s the same color as his armor. Clever.

          There’s one of Carolina, gazing out over a valley, her hair alight with the setting suns. The picture would be beautifully composed if Grif weren’t half standing in it.

          There are an enormous amount of photos of Freckles, most with smiley faces and stars drawn on them. There’s one of Felix and Locus from far away, with angry eyebrows drawn onto their helmets with crayon. Felix also has stink lines coming off of him and Wash can’t help but chuckle at that.

          There’s one of Epsilon. Or... Wash assumes it’s Epsilon. It looks like the brightness of the avatar messed up the color balance. Wash can just barely make out Carolina’s shoulder in the corner. This photo is earmarked.

          There’s a photo of Grif and Simmons, slightly leaning on each other, sitting on an outcropping, surrounded by beer bottles. Several selfies with Donut. One has Tucker making an exasperated expression into the camera, helmet tucked under his arm. Wash loses his breath for a second.

          It’s just so… _Tucker._ The way the corner of his mouth is scrunched up, the annoyed tilt of his head, the challenging glint in his eyes, looking directly into what Wash assumes is Caboose’s helmet cam, like he knows Caboose is taking a picture. Tucker was always perceptive.

          Was.

          Wash flips to the next photo.

          It’s Donut hugging Grif. The background seems familiar but it isn’t until the next photo that Wash recognizes it.

          The image is a little before Felix’s betrayal. When that door in the fed compound opened and everyone saw each other for the first time in weeks. Wash remembers this moment, right as he was lowering his rifle with incredulous relief. It’s odd seeing himself from the other side of the doorway. From this angle he can imagine their perspective, their worry about their teammates, heads full of lies about torture and imprisonment from Felix...

          The next photos are mostly of Tucker, but he’s almost unrecognizable. Wash had heard from others that Tucker had been... Determined to get him and the others back, but seeing that drive is something else entirely. There’s a hard, steel set to his eyes, and the lines of his body. There’s one of him snapping at Simmons. There’s one of Tucker doing pull-ups next to Felix (who’s scribbled over in crayon). There’s one of Tucker sitting on a bunk and looking at a photo, eyes tired and sad. The back of the photo he’s holding has something written on it. Wash frowns. What could he have been looking at?

          He flips the stack of photos over and almost immediately finds the one Tucker was looking at in the picture. It's titled "DonT eet aLEEan eGS." He flips it over.

          It’s of the three of them in valley.

          Caboose must have set a timer in his helmet or something. Or maybe he had Freckles take the photo. Either way, Caboose is actually in this one. It’s from inside the base; Tucker and Caboose are mostly out of their armor, and Wash has his helmet off. They’re all sitting at a table around a mushy, brown lump, laughing.

          Wash remembers this.

          It was the day before Felix had shown up, before all this bullshit about civil war and pirates and genocide fell onto their laps. Wash had found, of all things, chocolate cake mix in the wreckage of the _Hand Of Merope_. Upon realizing that all they still needed were eggs to make the cake, Tucker and Caboose had snuck off to climb up those terrifyingly steep cliffs just to steal eggs from those lizard-bird things. They’d come back somewhat bruised and battered, but gleeful, with five eggs the size of oranges.

          And Wash had been mad at them for skipping out on a whole day of practice (and had secretly been terrified of what could have happened to them on that cliffside without someone to spot them), but he helped make the cake and-

          It had tasted _awful_.

          Turns out alien eggs are not like chicken eggs. They had been so incredibly salty and bitter, that the cake was impossible to keep down. Caboose had unwittingly made a crack about giving it to the reds, and Tucker had laughed so hard that tears sprung into his eyes, and Wash couldn’t hold back the grin, and Caboose always smiles when everyone else is laughing, even if he’s the butt of the joke, and, apparently, Freckles had a good sense for candids and snapped the photo.

          A happier time, before everything went to shit. Apparently Tucker had thought so too.

          Wash is hit with a storm of emotions that twist his gut into knots. It had remained unsaid, but he'd known Tucker had been furious at him for collapsing the tunnel. For sacrificing himself (and Sarge, and Donut) for the chance that Tucker and the others would make it out alive. Tucker was almost as good as Grif at putting on an uncaring air, but there had been moments where his frustration split his facade: When Washington had suggested he, Carolina, and Epsilon stay behind and the others take the Merc's offer and leave, Tucker had all but bitten his head off. Ironic then, that the teal soldier's plan ended up putting him in the most dangerous position in the end. And after. Those weeks in Armonia, Tucker had made callous cracks about Wash's suicidal tendencies. Had been angry and short-tempered and Wash couldn't figure out  _why_ at the time. Didn't understand why any of it mattered as long as the rest of them were _safe_.

          He thinks he knows how that feels now. There's so much, too much to feel when he thinks of what happened on the Staff of Charon. He's proud, immensely proud of how far Tucker had come, how brave he'd been. Thankful, that he'd gotten everyone else out safely. Heartbroken, full of grief, of course but.

          Anger is what rises to the top of the frothing concoction that is his emotions. Anger that it had to happen. Anger that he did it at all. It stupid, it's irrational, but it's the only thing he knows how to feel.

          He hesitates, indulging in the spiraling feelings for a moment longer, before rubbing away the sudden, heavy wetness in his eyes, and putting the photo back in the box.

          Before he reaches down to replace the toe-jar, a sheet of paper catches his eye. It’s wrapped around what appears to be another photo. He pulls it out.

          It’s weathered. Old. Dog-eared and folded. Well-loved. the cheap colored ink fading, leaving behind mostly orange and green tones, but Wash can tell it’s a photo of Caboose and Church.

          Scrawled on the back it says “I hope I never see any of you assholes again. Love, Church”.

          So this was probably taken right before they’d been shipped off. Caboose to Rat’s Nest, Tucker to the desert, and Alpha to… that outpost in the middle of nowhere with a hole in the wall.

          Wash unfolds the paper, inside is just a badly drawn picture of a spaceship and a big, blue arrow pointing at it. The ship says something on the side… sack of carrots? No there was a “t” there, and at the end, that was an “n”…

          StApH of CaRroN

_Staff of Charon!_

          Wash stands suddenly, and he just barely keeps the contents of the box from flying out of his arms. He piles everything back in fast as he can, before hesitating. He finds the picture with the cake, and tucks it safely into one of his pockets.

          He’ll give it back to Caboose when he finds him.

          Wash rushes through the base, paper clenched in his fist, searching for a certain armor color. Grey definitely spots him on the way and shouts at him, but Wash loses her within seconds. He manages to wrangle out of a cadet on the way that Carolina and Kimball were last seen walking towards the airfield, and turns right down the hall leading outside the base.

          The yellow stream of light emanating from the mountaintop assaults his vision before his visor adjusts and he can see the two women standing under a Pelican’s wing. There are a few other soldiers around in a loose semi-circle around the hangar as well.

          “Carolina! Kimball!” He runs over. His breathing is starting to hurt, and maybe Grey was right about needing to stay in bed a few more days, but Wash would tear out his larynx himself if it meant they got Caboose home safe. “I think I know where Caboose might be!”

          Carolina jumps in shock and yanks Wash down behind the Pelican when he gets close enough. It’s only now Wash realizes she has her rifle drawn. In fact, so does Kimball. And the other soldiers as well….

          They’re not standing in a circle, they’re in cover.

          Carolina hisses. “Yeah Wash! I think we know where he is too!”

          Wash blinks stupidly before peeking his head out from behind the pelican.

          He sees blue. First and foremost. Caboose’s huge form dwarfing the figure behind him, but not by much. There’s a dark-gray arm around his neck and a rifle positioned on his shoulder.

          Wash’s mind fumbles on who could _possibly_ be using Caboose as a human shield, before a deep voice echoes through his radio.

          “Put the weapons down, and no one will be hurt! I’m not here to shoot anyone.”

          “ _Locus_ !!” Wash shouts. He sees red. He sees blue. _Caboose._ “What the fuck are _you_ doing here!?”

          “I have intel for you.” He shakes Caboose, who waves at Wash happily. “And I am returning your man-child. Give me your word I will not come to harm, and I’ll give you both.”

          Wash pops back into cover. He can’t tell what Carolina is thinking, but Kimball is shaking her head. “No way, absolutely no way.” She says. “We’re not negotiating with _Locus_. We’re _not_! You can’t seriously be considering _trusting_ _him_!?”

          “He’s got Caboose!” Wash hisses back.

          “And he’s been murdering and lying to us for _years!_ This isn’t up for debate!” Kimball points threateningly in his face. “I’m radioing a sniper. He’ll take out Locus and Caboose will be fine!”

          Wash’s stomach drops, and anxiously bounces on the balls of his feet. He doesn’t like this. “Listen, just send me out! I’m not armed! Let’s hear what he has to say and-”

          “ _Locus!_ ”

          Oh for the love of-

          Four pirates are in the doorway of the base. One look at their former leader and all of them have their guns drawn and aimed at the soldiers in cover. Standoff.

          But Locus has Caboose.

          Carolina slowly puts down her rifle and the others do the same. Wash glances nervously at Kimball, who looks ready to explode. Finger twitchy on the trigger.

          Carolina slowly, calmly, puts an arm on her shoulder, and lowers the gun.

          After a minute of electricity in the air that feels like years, Kimball finally throws down her gun.

          “Great!” She shouts. “Just great!”

          “Orders, Locus?” Asks one of the pirates, not relaxing her hold on her weapon.

          “Stand down.”

          “What?”

          “I said,” He drops the rifle from Caboose’s’ shoulder and puts it away. “Stand down. I’m not here to fight.”

          The pirates fidget nervously for a second before complying, but they do not shoulder their rifles.

          Locus walks over and Caboose skips after him. The blue soldier sweeps up Wash and Carolina into a fierce hug and shouts happily into their ears “I missed you guys!”

          “We missed you too Caboose.” They both parrot back, and it’s stupid. One of their most dangerous enemies in years is standing a few feet away, expression hidden behind his domed helmet. But they both sink into Caboose’s hold, and grip him back just as tightly.

          And Locus, he just stands there. Kimball is so angry her arms are shaking. Carolina takes one look at her before gesturing at Locus and the pirates. “Perhaps we should talk inside.”

          Wash knows that gesture. It’s been years since he’s seen it and it almost doesn’t blip on his radar. Hand upturned for a count of two, clenching into a fist before lowering again.

          Locus nods, but doesn’t move. In fact, no one moves. Wash shakes his head and sighs. He grabs Caboose’s arm and moves towards the doorway. “Hey Caboose, wanna _help_ our friends here find the war room?”

          The pirates sputter, offended. “We know where the War-AGH!!”

          Caboose grabs two of the Pirates with an enthusiastic shout, and Wash disarms the other two in seconds. Knocks one out and holds the other in an arm lock.

          Meanwhile Carolina’s wrestling Locus to the ground, and Kimball’s pressing her gun to his forehead.

          “Give me one reason!! One good reason I shouldn’t shoot you, you son-of-a-bitch!” She pushes his head back further with the muzzle. “I swear to fucking god, you’re brains are gonna be a smear on the ground in five seconds!!!”

          Carolina jerks her head up in surprise at Kimball’s viciousness, but before she can reel the general in Locus says _something_ and the Kimball’s gun jerks back in shock.

          And Wash says it’s _something_ because there’s no goddamn way he heard that right. No way. His heart sinks for the hundredth time in as many days as the meaning of Locus words pierce his brain. The glow of the yellow sky becomes overwhelming and Wash presses his eyelids shut as hard as he can but that’s wrong, that’s _worse,_ because now he can see an image he never witnessed. Of teal and turquoise and aquamarine and the bay door of a freighter closing shut between them, and now he knows _exactly_ the feeling from the other side, before that door opened. After a tumbling of boulders, a shout of his name. After “ _Freckles, shake!_ ”

          “What?” Wash croaks out. “What did you just say?”

          There’s no way, _there’s no way_.

          “I said Captain Tucker is alive.” The dome covers his face, but Wash feels as though the eyes behind that mask are boring into his skull. “Hargrove has him captive, and I can help you get him back.”

 

* * *

 

 

          Simmons storms through the war room’s doors in a manner that can only be described as “dramatic”.

 

          “When was anyone going to tell me we had freaking _Locus_ in the base!?” He asks. “Drop the bombshell of ‘ _we know where all the blues are_ ’ over basebook message? Sure! Okay! But ‘ _oh and we caught Locus_ ’ as a _post script_ !? Tucker being alive is great and all, but that should be the fucking _header_!!”

          Of everyone clustered around the monitor, straining their ears to catch every word, only Caboose looks up and offers a jovial hello.

          “Yeah yeah, Caboose. Good to see you too, you idiot.” Simmons grumbles, and shoves his way in between some fed and Wash. “What’s going on?”

          “Carolina’s interrogating him,” Kimball replies, eyes not leaving the screen. “He’s being forthcoming, but I don’t trust a single word out of his damn mouth.”

          “Caboose has vouched for him…” Grey starts. “He said he spoke with Tucker too! There’s a devious brain inside that man, but that doesn’t seem like the kind of scenario he could trick someone into believing.” She taps a finger thoughtfully against her nose. “Even with someone having as… altered a perception of reality as our friend here.”

          Caboose beams. “Aww shucks, that’s so nice of you to say, Dr Great!”

          Grey pats him on the arm. “Dr _Grey_ , darling.” She corrects. “And besides, That was more Felix’s modus operandi.”

          “I don’t care. I want him _gone_ .” Kimball hisses. “Having him here is a liability; it undermines our authority with the pirates. Because they don’t make _enough_ trouble as it is.”

          “General,” Grey says, stepping forward. The fed that Simmons doesn’t know nods as she speaks. “If he has something of importance to say, I think we can’t afford to-”

          “He’s one of the people who caused all this in the first place!!” Kimball rises up. She’s probably about the same height as Grey, but Grey is wearing civvies and Kimball is in full armor, sans helmet, and towers over the doctor. Grey does not shrink back, and Wash and Simmons exchange a nervous look. Kimball’s volume keeps rising. “I’ve seen this man murder _children,_ doctor! Thirteen year olds fighting for their godamn lives, trying to avenge their families, their homes! I’ve seen him _slaughter_ them without a fucking care! And you think for _one second_ I’m going to liste-”

          “ _You’re not the only one who’s lost people because of him!_ ” The shout comes from the fed. Kimball looks blindsided. The man takes a shaky breath and continues. “He killed our friends. Our comrades! He killed _Doyle_.”

          And Simmons finally kind of recognizes the guy. He was Doyle’s second in command back in Armonia. Or, at least, he hung around Doyle a lot. If all they had left to lead was Doyle _,_ the next person down the chain of command couldn’t have been anyone more experienced than an intern. This guy looks like an intern.

          Grey has her fists clenched and tears in her eyes. Her typical manic smile, now a pained grimace. Kimball looks back at her, swallows, and backs down. “Sorry.” She says, so quietly, that Simmons mostly catches it from reading her lips.

          “General, I know, better than anyone, what Locus has done.” Grey says through clenched teeth. “He killed my _entire_ platoon, before I escaped with the Reds and Blues. So I know this is difficult, but if he has a _shred_ of information that could give us an edge, we need to risk it.”

          There’s a minute of silence, before Kimball nods. The whole room visibly deflates.

          Carolina is asking something about how Caboose could have possibly taken down the shuttle with Tucker inside when everyone checks back into the interrogation.

          Locus’s voice raises and the tinny sound from the screen does something odd with his bass tones and it’s impossible to miss. “ _You don’t have time for this. Without their teleportation grenades, Charon will just go hit Beat Cliff again. If that tower falls we are all doomed_!”

          Everyone but Carolina flinches at that. Locus mutters something too low for the mic to catch, and holds something out to the Freelancer. Carolina takes whatever it is from him, and then leans down to talk, cell bars between them. Everyone sees them speak quietly for a few minutes, and then Carolina walks off screen.

          Simmons reacts most animatedly. “Hold up, did he just say Beat Cliff is still up and running?”

          Wash nods. “Sabotaged.. Locus and Caboose say that Tucker and Epsilon were the ones who attacked Beat Cliff. The working theory right now is… brainwashing,” Wash shakes his head like he can’t believe it. “The base is heavily damaged. It’s a safe bet that their long-rang com was destroyed. But it sounds like the Reds chased them off before he could take the tractor beam offline.”

          “So, they’re still alive?” Simmons feels blood pumping through his body like he hasn’t felt since Grif left. “Sarge and the others?”

          Caboose fidgets and that can’t be good. Simmons whips around. Oh no.

          “Who?”

          Wash puts a hand on his shoulder. “It sounds like Sarge was in pretty bad shape… Jensen too.”

          Simmons’s stomach ties itself in knots.

          “S-so we gotta go to Beat Cliff!” He says, looking back at Kimball. “We have to help them! And if Locus isn’t lying and Hargrove’s throwing all of his soldiers at them…”

          “I’m not disagreeing with you Simmons,” Kimball says. “But how on earth are we going to get there in time?”

          Carolina chooses then to come through the doors, back from the prison a smirk on her face.  Perfect timing as always. Simmons can’t help but think she was standing outside, waiting for the opportune moment. She’s holding up…

          An orange pokeball?

          “With one of these, general.”


	17. Chapter 17

          “Emily, please!”

          “Don’t you ‘Emily’ me, mister!” Dr. Grey says, arms crossed and feet stubbornly planted in the middle of the hall. “You’re still recovering! You have microscopic tears all throughout your trachea and lungs, if fact,” Her eyes narrow. “You shouldn’t even be up and speaking with me right now!”

          Wash shoots a pleading look at Carolina, who grimaces and shakes her head. “Sorry, Wash. I saw those coughing fits. I don’t think you coming with us to Beat Cliff would be a good idea.”

          Wash feels his frustration teetering on the edge of his breaking point. _Sure_ , maybe his chest still aches and his throat still stings, but he can _help_ . He can do _something_ . Stabilize the situation there _faster_. And then maybe they could work on saving...

          Carolina pulls him to the side of the hall and Wash is jerked out of mentally preparing to have a shouting match with Grey, shredded lungs be damned.

          Grey makes a small huff of victory and turns right around to follow the others, shouting instructions at Simmons’s back. The others have already started heading to the medical wing to gather supplies for the trip to Beat Cliff, and Carolina and Wash are now alone in the hallway to the war room.

          “Wash,” Carolina grips into his shoulder hard. “I know you’re worried about the others, and _I know_ you’re worried about Tucker, okay? I’m going mad thinking about what they’re doing with Epsilon too. We’ll get them as soon as we can, but right now, we have to focus on what we _can_ do, and you are in no shape to fight.”

          Wash hadn’t even considered the AI, but Epsilon was _valuable_ . Hargrove probably had a fancy box to stick him in when this was all over. Another item to start his trophy collection over from scratch after the Reds and Blues had ransacked it. Wash doubted Hargrove would do anything to put the AI in genuine danger, but Tucker? Tucker was _expendable_.

          It’s not till Wash catches sight of Carolina’s furious snarl that he realizes he’s said all that aloud.

          “I know Epsilon hurt you, Wash.” She spits. Her voice is like acid. “But he’s grown, he’s _learned_! he’s a person in his own right and if you don’t think it’s fucked up enough to care that Hargrove would stick him in a box for all of time, not to mention whatever the hell he’s making him do with Tucker then-”

          “ _He’s an AI,_ Carolina!!!!” Wash shouts back, and even Carolina looks taken aback by his ferocity. “Okay!? Do you want me to say I’m sorry that I don’t care about what happens to him? Because I _don’t!_ I don’t! All the shit he did to me? All the horrible things he put me through? The things I’m _still_ suffering through? They’re all his fault, and he never _once_ told me he was sorry!”

          The air feels like it’s being pulled out of his lungs by a force he can’t control, and he can’t stop now. The dam is breaking down and years of frustration, of pain are collapsing under the stress and grief of the past few months and Wash just can’t hold it in anymore.

          “I can’t see him as a person. A _person…”_ He gestures to himself. “A person wouldn’t have done _this_!”

          His eyes feel heavy and hot. He’s breathing hard. He wants to break something. To claw and scratch and scrape. Wash clenches his hands into fists so tight that the whites of his knuckles show through instead.

          Carolina visibly pushes down her reaction to yell right back in his face. Wash is aware he’s crossed a line but he can’t find anything he said to be untrue. “I just… I can’t bring myself to care, Carolina. Not when Tucker’s in more danger.”

          Carolina glares. “They’re _both_ in danger, Wash. Regardless of how you feel about him, Church would do anything to keep Tucker safe. To keep all of us safe. You’re right that Hargrove wouldn’t ever throw away something as valuable as an AI… even a fragment, but if it came down to it…” Carolina trails off and electric green eyes lock with Wash’s . “Epsilon was never one to hold his own survival in high regard.”

          Wash can only hold eye contact for a few seconds before it’s too much, and he glances away again.

          “Fine.” He says. “So they’re _both_ in danger. Which is why we need all the help we can get at Beat Cliff! If that tower goes down, then there will be _no one_ to save them.”

          Carolina shakes her head. “No Wash, you’re not coming with. Most attacks so far have involved subterfuge. Even with how unmaneuverable Charon’s soldiers are, there’s a good chance that Hargrove’s throwing them all at Beat Cliff as a distraction.” She leans closer. “And between you and me? Kimball’s on edge. I’m taking Locus with me to Beat Cliff, but She wasn’t wrong about his presence making the pirates feel like they can push their luck. Most of the rebels are spread thin through the other outposts, and there are a lot of Feds stationed here. She’s surrounded by people she doesn’t trust, and when you throw a possibility of espionage into the mix…. You _need_ to be here.”

          “So I’m staying for… what? stability?” Wash asks, still miffed.

          “‘Fraid so.” Carolina says, and clasps her hand on his shoulder. “We’ll be fine, Wash. We have the alien weapons to give us the edge. And then right after, we can start on getting our boys back. You have my word.”

          Wash lets out a shaky breath, and concedes. “Fine. Yeah, okay. You’re right. It’s just… ” Wash runs a hand through his hair and tries to let go of his frustration.

          “Tucker was the one who did everything he could, sacrificed so much just for the chance to get me and Sarge and Donut out when he thought we were imprisoned…” He says. “And… now we know he’s alive! We know he’s imprisoned, and probably being tortured, or at the very least brainwashed and- and...” Wash’s lungs and throat flare up with stinging pains again and he has to stop. Carolina’s giving him an odd look, but she waits patiently for him to get a handle on his breathing again.

          When it subsides, his mouth tastes like copper and it feels like there’s a damn cactus in his windpipe, but he has to say this. Has to make her understand. “It- It feels _wrong_ to be in the same position now, and to give him anything less.”

          Carolina squeezes his shoulder. “Soon, Wash. We want to have a plan, want to do it _right_. They’ve made it this far, they can wait a little bit longer.”

          Carolina makes to turn, to follow after Grey, but stops for a second. “And Wash? Epsilon _was_ sorry. He was sorry every day for what he did.”

          Wash doesn’t know if he wants to answer, but the words slip past his lips quietly, unbidden. “Why didn’t he say anything?”

          Carolina huffs a little laugh. “You know, I thought he was just a coward for a long time. But after Church and Tucker ‘talked things out’” Carolina makes air quotes. “Before the Feds and Rebels knew about the Mercs…? I honestly don’t think he knew how.”

          Wash shakes his head. “Can’t believe they call _us_ emotionally stunted.”

          Carolina laughs again. Her real laugh. Rare enough that it startles Wash into feeling a tiny bit better.

          “See you later, Wash.”

          And then he’s alone in the hallway.

 

* * *

 

 

          When Tucker is unceremoniously stripped of his beaten, dusty armor, scanned by some scientists, and dumped back in his room, there’s a whole slew of emotions he’s cycling through. Worry, hope, rage.

          In the end though, it all settles into an uneasy boredom.

          Church still hasn’t woken up and no one comes in to see him.

          After about 16 hours, Tucker is waiting for a session from Hawley. Or at the very least a beatdown from some of the soldiers for “escaping”. Maybe even a message from Hargrove himself. But nothing.

          He spends a lot of the time pacing. Showers three times. Tries to jerk off once (he gives up halfway through). Mostly, Tucker dreams of his glorious escape, and what his first lizard-bird meat in four months is going to taste like.

          But he doesn’t even get a jolt from his stupid cranial shock collar, and the door stays shut. No one even comes to feed him or bring him clean sweats. He tries scrubbing the dirt and blood out of the grimy undershirt and underwear in the shower without wondering about who’s blood it is, but the stains are stubborn, and now he just naked with wet clothes. He hangs them on the chair and watches the water drip, drip, drip.

          He shouts his typical jeers and insults and complaints at the guards he knows are right outside in the hallway once his stomach starts to growl. But he doesn’t even get a single annoyed pounding on the wall in response.

          It’s bizarre.

          Tucker flops down onto his bed with a huff. Thinks about Caboose and Locus and whether or not they got a hold of Kimball and Carolina and Wash and the rest of the guys. Tries to make himself believe that Donut was okay. That Sarge wasn’t nearly as bad off as Tucker had left him…

          He can still feel the exact way the red soldier’s armor had begun to give under his fists.

          He swallows the bile in the back of his throat.

          He’s scared. Scared of how little control he had over what he’d been doing. Scared because if Locus was to be believed (which, really, he wasn’t, but the way this whole situation’s been playing out, Tucker doesn’t have much of a choice to trust him. And Caboose seemed to have been keeping him in line at least…), then Tucker has _weeks_ worth of unaccounted time. He doesn’t know what he’s been doing. Whether they’d been sending him on more bullshit missions or _what_.

          He wonders about Junior. Whether he got his message. If he’s keeping a closer eye on his surroundings. Making sure the people around him are people he can really _trust_. It eats at Tucker’s insides, not knowing. Not being able to do anything to put his kid out of danger.

          It really occurs to Tucker that he’s not getting out of this. Not until Hargrove and all of Charon is taken down.

          Tucker rolls over and sleeps. He doesn’t dream.

 

* * *

 

 

          The door sliding open wakes him up, and the silence in his head makes Tucker more jittery than usual. There are two soldiers and one of Hargrove’s scientists. The soldiers don’t flinch, they’re used to Tucker’s shit by now, but the scientist recoils when he sees that Tucker’s in his birthday suit.

          “Why are you naked!?” The man shrieks.

          Jeez, this asshole’s voice peaks worse than even Simmons’s.

          Tucker glares at him, bleary-eyed. “You guys didn’t give me any clothes. Or food. Thanks.”

          “Yeah, well, we’re a little preoccupied.” One of the guards glares back. “Some trouble down at ground camp. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about _that_ , would you?”

          Actually, Tucker doesn’t. Was is Caboose and Locus? Or were the guys and Carolina already on their way? Tucker knows he should fish for more information before getting his hopes up, but it flares up like wildfire anyways.

          “Couldn’t have been that bad.” Tucker says. “Unless they stole all your oranges, and you fuckers are all gonna get _scurvy_.”

          The guard takes the bait. “Not that bad!? You’re _buddies_ down there torched half the-”

          “Shut up!” The scientist snaps.

          Torched half the ground camp? Tucker doesn’t know what that means, but it sounds good to him.

          “Well if you’re not here to feed me,” Tucker goes on. “What are you doing here, if shit’s gone that south?”

          “You, go get him some clothing. This is ridiculous.” One of the soldiers leaves and the scientist turns back to Tucker. “I have some questions for you.” He rifles through his pocket and pulls out Tucker’s sword. The desire to lunge and grab it and to kill everyone and just flee entertains Tucker’s thoughts for a moment. Not that there's anywhere for him to go really. “This only works for you. Why?”

          Tucker shrugs. “Guess I’m just the chosen one. You bitches ain’t got the stuff to turn on an epic laser sword.”

          “Mhm,” The scientist nods knowingly. “Except this isn’t just a sword, is it? It’s a key to all of the alien technology on this planet.”

          Tucker stays silent. He doesn’t like where this is going.

          “No need to act coy: we already know what these do from our reports from the mercenaries. We also know that a number of alien _weaponry_ is being used by the natives here. And that that weaponry was only activated shortly after the discovery of a second key.”

          Oh, Tucker does not like where this is going at _all._

          The scientist seems to see something in Tucker’s posture, and Tucker suddenly realizes he’s become more and more hunched in as the man’s been talking. The man smirks like Tucker just confirmed everything he’s said, and Tucker realizes that he basically has. He’d been left as good as naked on purpose.

          It’s hard to lie while entirely exposed.

          The other guard returns and tosses ugly gray sweats at him and sets a pair of sneakers on the floor. Tucker hastily pulls the clothing on but the scientist doesn’t seem to care anymore. He’s put Tucker’s sword back in his pocket and is waiting impatiently for him to fish his arms through the sweater. “We’re leaving.”

          Tucker’s still pissed he’s been played, and still hungry. He can’t tell if the growl he hears comes from his throat or from his stomach. “I haven’t eaten in like two days, asshat.”

          The scientist smirks and fishes something else out of his coat. Tosses it to Tucker who catches it in surprise. The guards chuckle under their breath as he practically vibrates with fury.

          “You can eat on the way.”

          One of the guards shoves his rifle into Tucker’s shoulder. “Get going.” He orders. And Tucker does.

          He leaves the orange behind, though.

  


 

* * *

 

 

          When they march Tucker onto another shuttle, he can’t help but feel a little surprised.

          “Already?” He asks as he’s buckled in. “I literally just came back like a day ago. Church is offline, and my armor’s a wreck. What could you possibly want me to do?”

          The scientist sits down across from him and doesn’t even look up from his datapad. “You won’t be needing either of those things.”

          Tucker bristles a bit at Church being referred to as a ‘thing’, but he’s about ninety percent sure they’re taking him on a road trip to murder him and dump his body somewhere, and he’s rather not test that final ten percent by starting a fight. That kerfuffle when he’d been picked up from the jungle already had been him pushing his luck.

          The flight is therefore silent. Tucker finds himself mentally throwing jabs at Church: rude comments about the shuttle’s other passengers, insults at the AI himself. _Anything_ to get any kind of reaction, but that buzz in his skull, that he’d learned to appreciate as comfortable and companionable is just… gone.

          He knows Church is still _there._ When they’d scanned him with their fancy tools when he’d come back aboard the Staff of Charon, Hargrove’s scientists seemed relieved. One had whispered under her breath about the AI “being out cold”, which seemed to imply that he should wake up at some point.

          Tucker would prefer sooner rather than later. It’s only been a little over a day, but being in this by himself is wearing away at him already.

          He snaps out of his thoughts when the shuttle begins to descend. One of the guards comes over a shackles his wrists before unbuckling him out of the seat. Tucker rolls his eyes. He’s got no armor, no weapons, and has no idea where they are. The idea of him running is ridiculous.

          When they step out of the shuttle (and damn he appreciates being able to just walk out of one for once and not get dumped from a bazillion feet up in the air), the first thing that register’s in Tucker’s mind is “Tall”. Then familiarity. Then slight disappointment as he realizes the alien temple before him doesn’t _quite_ match up with the one that he had accidentally activated with Dr. Grey so long ago.

          Tucker’s marched inside, rifles jabbed into his back prompting him forward. The scientist leads the way down the dimly lit interiors, and Tucker wonders what on earth they need him here for until they reach the central chamber.

          The scientist goes over to a control panel and hits a few buttons and fiddles around there. Tucker doesn’t pay too much attention because one of the Guards is handing him something.

          His sword.

          “You want me to activate this temple?” Tucker blurts out. “Are you crazy?” They all ignore him and he becomes even more baffled.

          “Do you even know which temple this is? You _do_ _know_ that one of them’s supposed to throw us all in a fuck-frenzy right? And like, hey if you’re into that I won’t judge, but none of you here are exactly my type so- OW!!” Something hard smacks him in the back off the head.

          “Jesus Christ, do you ever shut up?” Says the soldier still holding out the butt of his rifle. “You’re worse than Olowabi.”

          “Hey!” Shouts one of the others. “Don’t speak ill of the dead, dick!”

          “Oh... Yeah, okay sorry.”

          The scientist rolls his eyes and makes a motion at Tucker. “Activate the key.”

          Tucker rolls the hilt around in his hand uneasily. “Yeah… I don’t think so.”

          The scientist makes another motion, and the soldier who wasn’t bickering slowly pulls out a knife.

          “Uhhh….” Tucker backs up. “Hey, c’mon, don’t do anything hasty man…”

          “Key. On.” The scientist growls out, and when Tucker still hesitates, the soldier hurls the knife right at Tucker’s leg. The sword sparks to life and Tucker’s deflecting it with a move that comes so fluidly, so naturally, that he must have practiced it with Hawley.

          He _must_ have, but he doesn’t remember ever doing it.

          The knife klangs against the stone floor and skids away, and there is a second of tension where Tucker’s holding his sword frozen in the move’s end position and the Charon goon are waiting with bated breath before the interior of the temple is lighting up. Tucker thinks a hasty ‘oh shit!’, but after a moment, neither he nor the Charon goons seem to suddenly want to jump into the throes of passion with one another, so he crosses that one off of his list of immediate worries.

          The Scientist’s attention goes back to the panel, and he fiddles with it some more before a huge groan seems to come from the very center of the temple itself. He smirks to himself.

          “What the fuck did you guys just do!?” Tucker shouts.

          “Nothing concerning you, don’t you worry.” The scientist sneers. “Alright, we’re done here. Let’s-”

          The groan is replaced with a high pitched whirring sound and everyone’s attention snaps to the huge, flickering red light hovering over the console. The scientist jumps away in surprise as it coalesces into a familiar shape.

          Tucker grins. “Santa!”

          The AI turns it’s head to him. “ _Hello Lavernius Tucker. Whassup?_ ”

          One of the soldiers turns to Tucker. “Did… Did that alien just ask you… _what’s up???”_

          “Huh?” Tucker says. “Oh, yeah. It was kind of the first english he learned?”

          “An AI? Interesting...” The scientist is looking at Santa with an interest that Tucker doesn’t like seeing.

          Santa looks down at Tucker’s handcuffed hands, then looks back at the scientist. Tucker would consider himself pretty well acquainted with sanghelli expressions at this point, and ‘unimpressed’ is what he would call the look on that construct’s face.

          “ _You are not worthy._ ” Santa’s voice echoes through the chamber, and Tucker can feel his low tones resonate in his lungs. The red fizzles out, and is gone.

          “Hmmm….” The scientist types some things in his datapad, and Tucker gets to watch the soldiers look around fruitlessly where the hologram had dissapeared. Like it was just hiding behind a corner somewhere. Idiots.

          Tucker almost jumps when he feels the prescence in his mind. He at the very least flinches, but none of the Charon personell seem to spare him a second glance.

          It’s friendly. Definitely not Church, but Tucker has a pretty good idea who it is.

          < _You’re their prisoner, Lavernius Tucker?_ >

          Tucker whispers his affirmation under his breath.

          < _Hmmmm…. I do not condone this new faction’s presence on my planet._ >

          “Actually… they’re in cahoots with the guys from before.” Tucker whispers. “You know, the pirates?”

          This seems to gets the AI’s interest, and Tucker can feel it rifling through his memories, looking for confirmation. Tucker’s not exactly forthcoming about it, but he doesn’t throw up his mental blocks either. He’s not about to reject the assistance of a 4000 year old, all-powerful AI.

          “So… uh, you remember that other AI that was with us before? ” Tucker mumbles, after Santa seems to have it’s curiosity satisfied. “He’s in my head too, but he’s asleep or something. Can you wake him up?”

          < _Hmmmmmm… I do sense another AI’s presence here…_ > Santa withdraws a little bit, and Tucker stops feeling so naked. Something he used to associate with fun times, but lately has kind of sucked. < _Very well. This will require only a minute._ >

          Tucker lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

          “Huh?” One of the soldiers is back.

          “Oh, nothing…” Tucker says innocently.

          Epsilon comes back online much like how a clap of thunder comes after a distant flash of lightning. Tucker notices a slight difference, a little weight back in his head, barely noticable, and then suddenly-

                 **_BZZZZZT!!!!!_**

          The console spits arcs of electricity. The scientist shouts in pain as his arm, which was just a little bit too close, gets a jolt, and his datapad in his hand explodes in a shower of white sparks. The sleeve of his labcoat is burned away, and Tucker sees a flash of the cracked, burnt skin, before the AI overwhelms his vision again like he did when he’d been hacking the Staff of Charon all that time ago.

        _ColorsShapesNumbersNumbersNumbers Symbols he doesn’t recognize -but there’s something about them that reminds him of- knowledge!!! So much knowledge! Things useless, unimportant, tiny in their scale, but there! An epiphany! A lust for something- something-_

          < _Woahh….!_ > Church groans. < _Did anyone… get the plates on that truck..?_ >

      _Church!!_

          Tucker grins so hard that his eyes start to tear up. It’s only been two days, but Christ, having Church back felt like a cozy sweater for his brain or some shit.

          < _That’s pretty gay dude._ >

          “Yeah… you’re right!” Tucker laughs and realizes that the guards are all shouting and one is pulling on his arm and giving him a bizarre look. His first reaction to someone suddenly touching him is to stab them, but doesn’t seem to have his sword anymore. He doesn’t care enough to look for who has it.

          Tucker’s feeling pretty gay. In the, like, happy way. Super gay. Mega gay.

          Epsilon huffs a baffled sigh, and settles in, while Tucker grins like a lunatic and is dragged back to the shuttle, right behind the scientist with a dead arm and scowling face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SOOOOOOO very sorry about how long this took. Life has been.... weird lately, and I had a hard time nailing this chapter. I still think some of the pacing feels weird but like. WE GOTTA GET THIS PLOT GOING MAN. I than you all for your patience, and I hope the longer-than-usual chapter makes up for the wait!!!
> 
> Also I am OFFICIALLY going in a tuckington-y direction with this so I'm super sorry to anyone who stuck with it this long and wanted some good old action-packed gen!


	18. Chapter 18

          It turns out the radii of the new teleportation grenades are a good deal narrower than their cube shaped predecessors. Carolina feels a little ridiculous being squashed between the long range radio equipment, medical supplies, Dr. Grey, and a squirming Simmons, who’s clearly not comfortable standing so close to two women, but it’s only for a moment before she finishes counting down, and everyone throws down their grenades in sync.

          The explosion of light sucks the group forward, and backward… and yet to the sides, and Carolina may be the most comfortable with using the grenades out of everyone, but that doesn’t mean that using them is _comfortable_ in any sense. Her stomach is rolling and flipping faster than- well, faster than when she normally does rolls and flips.

          If Simmons was uncomfortable before, Carolina can’t imagine what he must be thinking now, with all their molecules being pulled together through a pin-point in space. Like a spaghetti extruder, or clay through a press. She can almost taste the copper in the radio and the sharp tang of the disinfectant Grey has brought with her.

          Their landing is about as graceful as the journey. Grey stumbles and collapses onto the radio, Simmons goes flying, landing face-first in the dirt, and even Carolina has trouble getting her footing at first.

          It occurs to her that Epsilon had most likely helped steady her after using the grenades in the past. He’d never mentioned it, but Church was odd like that. He’d rib you mercilessly for days about any bad decisions you’ve made, but the little things?

          He helped quietly.

          It makes Carolina wonder what else he’d done for her without her noticing.

          When she blinks the starbursts out of her eyes, Carolina can make out the base a few hundred meters away. The other groups are righting themselves; two soldiers are pulling off their helmets and throwing up. Grey had warned them not to eat beforehand, so Carolina’s sympathy is limited. The only one who seems to have no ill reaction from the teleportation at all is the unarmored figure in handcuffs. Locus meets her gaze.

          Carolina becomes very aware of the weight of his sword in her pocket. He doesn’t know she has it with her, but his stare makes her wonder if he can sense it somehow. This is the sort of thing she wishes Tucker had let them know before-

          No.

          Stop.

          She can still ask when they get him back.

          Grey starts prodding her in the shoulder. “Hello! The base?”

          Carolina snaps out of her staring contest and barks at Simmons to help carry the radio, and he and some feds scamper off with it to the west entrance, to where the comm room should be, while Grey, Doc, and the New Republic Medic all rush in the direction of the garage. The reinforcements start moving the medical supplies, and a few people start coming out of the base to help.

          Carolina walks over to Locus, “You. Stay close to me. Any funny business at all? Well, you’re surrounded by about a hundred trigger-happy soldiers who hate your guts. You can do the math.”

          Locus scoffs. “These are hardly soldiers, Agent Carolina. Children playing with guns, maybe.”

          Carolina raises an eyebrow behind her helmet. “That’s funny. Seeing as you didn’t have a problem shooting up those _‘children playing with guns’_ not too long ago.”

          Locus remains silent. His scarred face is as unreadable a mask as his helmet ever was, and his eyes betray nothing. Carolina huffs in annoyance and motions him to follow behind her. She may be on baby-sitting duty, but Locus isn’t the only one she’s here to oversee.

          When they enter the base, the medical staff is already completely in their element. Gauze and antiseptic are being distributed to those who need it. The Rebel medic and one of her assistants have rushed through the hall to where people too injured to move to the garage are being kept. Doc’s treating two men in the corner with scrapes that look worse than they probably are with a tube of aloe gel, and Grey is already hunched over someone who’s arm seems to be missing, her medical scanner at the ready.

          Carolina almost moves on, but a glimmer of turquoise catches her eye, and she sees Tucker’s lieutenant… Pomo? Sitting against the wall, clutching his knees, and shaking.

          His helmet is off and… He’s young. He’s _very_ young. _Child_ was right, this kid couldn’t be more than sixteen. Before she knows it, her feet have brought her to his side, and he’s snapping out of his thousand-mile stare.

          “A-Agent Carolina!” He jerks his arms up like he’s going to salute, but he’s still sitting, and it’s an awkward, half-motion. He glances at Locus, and while his eyes flicker with curiosity and uncertainty at the handcuffs, there’s no trace of recognition. “Who’s that?”

          “Pirate.” Carolina quicky says. “He has beef with Kimball, but he has information we need, so instead of getting shot, he’s coming with me.” She smirks. “Don’t worry, he’s harmless.”

          And _that_ , out of everything she’s said, seems to rile Locus up, but she sends him a sharp warning glare and he backs down with a grumble. She turns back to the kid. “Pomo, was it?”

          “Actually, it’s Palomo, ma’am…”

          “Uh, sorry...”

          And she _is_ sorry. She’s been helping out these people out for how long? And how many did she get to know who weren’t at the top of the command chain? Grey? Sure, the Reds and Blues had seemed to make fast friends with a lot of these people, but Carolina knows that as a Freelancer Agent, she and Wash were held to a special sort of standard. Revered almost by these kids. And Wash had trained most of the soldiers, run them through drills, gotten to know a lot of them personally but as for her...

          It had been mostly baby-sitting pirates, and running solo missions with Epsilon.

          She misses Epsilon.

          Palomo is looking down at his hands, twiddling his thumbs, when he speaks again. “H-he looked right at me, you know.”

          Carolina squats down next to the teen, comes down to his level, and that prompts him to keep talking. “It was like he didn’t even know me. And… I mean… I know the captain doesn’t like me very much, but I d-didn’t think he hated me so much that he’d try to kill me! O-or Sarge! O-or, or Jensen!”

          And now he’s crying and Carolina doesn’t know what to do.

          She can feel Locus's gaze as she elects to pat the teenager awkwardly on the back.

          “Captain Tucker doesn’t hate you, Palomo.” Carolina says. “He’s been in Hargroves clutches for months, and they’ve clearly done something to him. Brainwashing… Torture...  who knows?”

          Palomo stops crying but his eyes go wide in horror, and Carolina immediately tries to backtrack.

          “-But I’m sure whatever’s happened to him, we’ll get to the bottom of it. Okay?”

          Palomo’s expression seems to pull away a bit from terror, and he nods.

          And at that moment, Carolina sees that Simmons is done with the radio, because he’s in the nearest doorway, and has suddenly gained everyone’s attention by dropping a box of tools with a horrendously loud clang.

          “Jensen!”

          He leaps over the screwdrivers and pliers that are now scattered on the ground, and bolts over to Grey and the soldier she was working on.

          “Oh my god, Jensen!!” Simmons drops to his knees next to Grey.

          “Captain Simmons! Please!” Dr. Grey looks shocked, and Carolina can’t blame her. The past month has been nothing but shaking, jittering, voice cracking, nervousness from Simmons. Surrounded by women at every turn, and none of his usual testosterone filled spaces to hide in, the man had been nothing short of a mess, his phobia never more apparent. But now-

          “What do you need, doctor?” Simmons’s eyes are full of fire, and his voice is steadier than she’s ever heard it. Dr. Grey looks floored, but quickly snaps back to business.

          “Here, she needs compression right over here while I remove the tourniquet…”

          Carolina, Polomo, and Locus watch as Grey masterfully uses her medical scanner in conjunction with a scalpel to shear away the dead tissue, and fuse Jensen’s skin together. Simmons determinedly by her side, doing whatever he can to help his Lieutenant.

          Finally Grey wraps the girl’s stump tightly with a fresh bandage, wipes the sweat from her brow, and claps Simmons on the shoulder. “Good job, Captain. She ought to be fine. We’ll need to get her a prosthetic but-”

          Simmons shakes his head, and gestures at his own arm. “Don’t worry about that, I’ll figure something out for her.”

          Grey seems impressed. “Alright! Well, good! She’s lucky to have you as a Captain, Simmons.” And Simmons almost seems touched before she trudges on, in typical Dr. Grey fashion: “Oh yes she’s very lucky! Whoever tied this tourniquet initially did it way too high for any normal amputation, she would have lost more of her arm than she needed to! But see this here?” She points at a mottled, dark spot near the freshly bandaged stump. “If they’d tied it any lower, she would have bled out!”

          All the color drains from Simmons’s already-pale face. He hones in on Palomo. “Who tied this?” He asks. “Who patched her up after Tucker ran off?”

          Palomo opens his mouth to answer, but someone else gets to it first.

          “I did.”

          He’d been in the other doorway most of the time. Grif steps out now, and Carolina has to admit, though the man had never been a paragon of health, he looks especially bad right now. His helmet is off, and he has the look of someone who’s lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time, the dark circles under his eyes could rival Wash’s. He glances around the room, and Carolina can feel how his eyes guiltily avoid her own. He probably doesn’t know about Caboose yet.

          “Why? She’s okay, right?” He asks, stepping forward trepidatiously. “Did I do something wrong?”

          Grey shakes her head. “No, quite the contrary, you probably saved Jensen’s life!” She points at the stump of arm. “Her veins were all cauterized, but her brachial artery was split open again right here. I assume it fused shut from the heat of the plasma sword as well, but trauma caused the cooked bits to break. She would have bled out if you’d tied this lower.”

          “Oh.” Grif deflates. Mumbles. “Thank God...”

          “Grif!” Simmons shouts, and every eye in the room turns to him.

          It doesn’t seem like his newly discovered confidence extends to this much attention. His face rapidly transforms from white to red, and he stammers. “T-Thank you! For saving Jensen!”

          And it’s telling for how far Carolina has come with this rag-tag team of idiots that she can see exactly how Grif is trying not to smile; to the untrained eye, he looks as apathetic as ever. But his eyes scrunch up the tiniest amount, and he tilts his head ever so slightly, and in a room full of people? He might as well be beaming. “Hey, Simmons.”

          They just look at each other for a minute.

          Two minutes.

          And everyone’s watching them watch each other because there’s a sense. There’s a feeling. A feeling that a storm gathering and building up for years and years and years is finally going to-

          “...Oh fuck this!” Simmons stands suddenly. The maroon soldier storms over to Grif, who’s standing stock still, winds up, and clocks him right in the jaw.

          The whole room lets out an “Oooooohh.” as Grif staggers back.

          “What the FUCK, dude!?!?!”

          Simmons gets up in his face again, and Carolina gets an overwhelming sense of deja vu. Like she’s seen this scene in a movie or a TV show or a book or maybe all of those things. “Don’t ever. EVER. Do that again!” Simmons hisses.

          Grif’s recovered from the hit, but not enough to think clearly apparently. “Do what!? Save your Lieutenant!?”

          “Oh my god, you fucking _idiot!!”_ Simmons reaches for the seals of his helmet. and everyone holds their breath while he takes an awkwardly long 7 seconds release them.

          Grif’s shoulders are bunched up tight, and he looks like he can’t decide on whether he’s baffled enough to just stand there, or to hit Simmons back. He doesn’t get a chance though, because Simmons finally tosses his helmet aside, grabs Grif’s face, and gives him the most awkward-looking, non-sexy, anti-hollywood kiss Carolina has ever seen.

          Grif’s eyes widen with shock, before giving it right back with enough force that Simmons almost falls over.

          The room erupts with applause.

          It’s loud, and there are whoops and cheers and whistles, but when they break apart, Carolina can still hear, as clear as day, what Simmons says to Grif.

          “Don’t ever leave without saying goodbye.”

_I hate goodbyes._

          It’s like a sliver of ice in her heart.

          Carolina pulls on Locus’s arm. He watches the scene a moment longer, before turning, and following her out of the room, leaving the jubilant crowd behind.

  


 

* * *

 

          She heads to the comm room, and immediately runs into Donut. His armor is scuffed and scratched, no longer the glistening, shining pink it normally is, but he takes one look at her, and the smile that lights up his features could outshine his armor any day.

          “Carolina! It’s so good to have you here!”

          His smile’s infectious, and she can’t help the small tugs at the corners of her lips. “It’s good to see you too Donut. Can you give me a sitrep?”

          Donut tells her of the wing, now mostly cleared of debris. That everyone was pulled out of the collapsed cafeteria with minimal problems. That Grif and Bitters had come in the nick of time and that Tucker had critically injured nine soldiers, but no one dead.

          Donut sighs. “He really did a number on Sarge though… The rebel medic said they’re gonna need to get him back to headquarters because of all the internal damage.”

          It all pretty much confirms Locus and Caboose’s recounting of what transpired. Locus, apparently, thinks the same.

          “Can we dispose with this showmanship now?” He grumbles from behind her, shaking the handcuffs pointedly. “I’m unarmed. I have no armor. You know I’m telling the truth.”

          Donut jumps an inch. “Is that LOCUS!?” He peers closer at the man’s face suspiciously. “What the heck is he doing here?”

          “He says he’s on our side now.” Carolina says drily. “He did bring Caboose back to us, and he says he can help us get Tucker and Epsilon back, but right now he needs to stay out of everyone’s way. And we, understandably, can’t trust him to roam around unsupervised. Can I count on you to keep an eye on him? Keep him out of trouble?”

          Locus expression breaks out of his mask for the first time since his capture.

          “Wait- What?”

          “Sure!” Donut replies, a little too enthusiastically.

          “No, wait, don’t-”

          Carolina smirks as Donut grabs Locus’s upper arm, and starts to drag him out of the room. WIthout power armor, the large man's struggles do nothing.

          “Honestly at first? I thought the stripes on your armor were just awful! Really, they looked atrocious! I mean, an ‘X’ on the helmet? Taaaacky!” Carolina smiles to herself, maybe a little maliciously, at Donut’s voice echoing up the hall, and at Locus’s despairing expression as he’s dragged away by the bubbly sim trooper. “But now I think I can see what you were going for! You may be a murderer, but I have to admit, I respect a man who’s that committed to matching his outfit!”

          Carolina lets herself revel in the ex-merc’s discomfort for a few seconds. Then gives herself a moment to wonder about Tucker and Epsilon and how they’re doing now, before turning to the tasks at hand.

          Charon’s forces are coming. And it’s up to her to make sure they survive this siege so that Church and Tucker can get rescued at all.

 

 

* * *

          Locus, above all else, is a man of discipline. It’s the thing that allowed him to hone his entire self into a weapon. He’s made it through countless situations on willpower and self-control alone. He’s handled the inane and irritating chatter of countless childish, witless, idiotic soldiers over the past few years stationed on this planet. Felix was egocentric and never stopped running his mouth, and Locus had worked with him for almost a  _ decade _ .

          He’s even dealt with the cringe-worthy commentary of  _ this _ particular soldier before.

          But Donut seems bent on revenge. And the young man has very creative ways of getting under Locus’s skin. Between the sim trooper’s comments on his hair, his lack of a skin care routine, and the not-so-subtle critiquing of his color theory skills, Locus’s long-practiced poker face is starting to crack. 

          “Well since I can’t call you Locus around the kids, I’m gonna have to come up with a code name for you!” Donut chirps. “What do you think about ‘Chamomile’? I’d go with a green tea but I think that’s way too obvious! Or something exotic like “Lustifik”? You know? Like from the Ikea catalogue? I love those shoe racks!”

          “No.” Locus repeats for what must be the hundredth time in under a minute.

          “Boo! Fine. Boring names then. How about ‘Tony’? Or maybe ‘Patrick’? Oh… I don’t know...” Donut rubs his chin thoughtfully, then brightens. “Got it! You look like a ‘Sam’!”

          Locus.

          Code Name: Sam.

          Oh, the irony.

          Donut either ignores Locus’s silence, or doesn’t notice. They push into another room that looks like it had formerly been the operations center, but was now housing a few wounded soldiers on stretchers. The New Republic medic is here tending to them with a few assistants. She looks up when they enter.

          “Oh thank God, Donut.” She tears at a bandage with her teeth and finishes wrapping a soldier’s leg. “What’s your blood type?”

          “Blood type?”

          “Sarge needs blood. He had internal bleeding; it’s a goddamn miracle that he’s alive. We drained blood out of the places it shouldn’t be, but it’s only slowed, not stopped. He’s going to need a transfusion very soon.” She frantically pulls at a box near her with packets of blood. “His dog tags say he’s B positive, but we’re already running low between all the different transfusions we’ve had to do already. And we can’t dip into the O supply when we’re definitely going to need it later.”

          Donut frowns, and shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m AB.”

          “Fuck!” The medic shouts, throwing blood packets into the box. They bounce slightly, like gory little juice packets. “How is it that the whole godamn fed army is type A? You’re all useless!” 

          “Hey!” A few of the assistants protest. “Fuck you, lady!”

          “Yeah, It’s not  _ all _ of the Fed army!! Just us!”

          “THAT DOESN’T HELP ME!” The medic shouts back. Donut kneels next to her and puts a hand on her shoulder.

          “Hey! Hey, come on Renata.” He gives her a little pat. “Look we’ll find someone okay?” 

          “Sorry! I’m just! I can’t handle this right now! They all need to get back to HQ for surgery, we can’t do it here.” She motions to run her hand through her hair, but stops at the last moment since her glove is bloody, so it just hangs there awkwardly in front of her face. “And we can’t leave until Dr. Grey brings the rest to teleport them all back and- I don’t know if these guys are gonna survive the trip and-”

          “I’m B positive.”

          The medic’s eyes flicker up to Locus’s face and there’s a flash of relief, but it’s quickly overcome with suspicion. Locus can feel the hairs on the back of his neck raise, and he proffers his arms for something to do and not just stand there.

          The medic hesitates a second longer, before pulling out a tube with needles and a syringe and begins to prep Sarge. Donut’s looking at him, baffled, but pleased, and Locus can’t help but get the feeling he’s just passed some sort of test.

          The Medic has him sit down next to the red soldier and uncaps the needle end of the tube. A loud part in the back of Locus’s brain recites the exact way to disarm an enemy soldier with a syringe, but he suppresses it, and doesn’t allow her to notice how tense he is when she sticks the needle in his arm.

          She hands the midsection to Donut and proceeds with sticking Sarge.

          “Alright,” She says, checking her work over once more. “Donut, I need you to keep an eye on that tube. If you see an air bubble, get one of those guys to help you right away.” She points to the Fed assistants. “And you-” She pauses.

          “Sam.”

          It’s been years.

          It tastes like a lie.

          Donut beams.

          “Call me Sam.”

          “Sam. Keep your arm elevated.” She stands and wipes dust off of her armor. “I’m gonna go see what’s taking Doctor Grey so long.”

          There’s only the rustlings and murmurings of the assistants when she leaves. Donut sits down next to Locus, and pulls out a package of… baby wipes?

_           Where does he get this stuff? _

          Donut takes a towelette and starts wiping the blood and grime from Sarge’s face.

          It’s a little off-putting. To see how careful and tenderly he’s treating the old soldier. The man is unconscious, injured. What is the point?

          “Why are you doing that?”

          Donut seems a little surprised at the question, but continues cleaning off Sarge’s face, treading carefully around the bandage on his head. “Why not? Sarge hates being dirty. He talks a lot about bathing in the blood of his enemies, but it’s a kind of a show, you know?” Donut sounds amused. “He loves that whole hyper-masculine thing, but I see him stealing my lavender soaps all the time.”

          “He’s not conscious though. Why would he care?” Locus asks. “He doesn't know if he's clean or not.”

          Donut tosses the wipe into a wastebasket on the other side of the room (an impressive shot, Locus notes), before taking out another and getting the last of the blood smeared on Sarge’s neck. “Sometimes, you just do nice things for the people you care about. You don’t expect anything in return, you just hope that somehow it helps. Even if it’s something as little as feeling clean.”

          “But it’s a waste of effort.” Locus replies. “He doesn’t appreciate what you’re doing.”

          Donut sighs, then balls up and tosses the new wipe into the bin. Once again, it doesn’t even touch the rim.

          “Why are you helping Sarge?” Donut asks.

          “What?”

          “Sarge is old. He’s not a fit, young soldier. He’s way past retirement age, and now that he’s injured, he has no use in this next battle.” Donuts says, now cleaning his hands. “In fact, he’s sucking up supplies and medical attention that could be going to other soldiers, ones who could be used in this upcoming fight. A battle that could determine the outcome of this entire war. So let me ask you, if you’re so unable to realize why I want to comfort my friend: why are you giving him blood?”

          Locus has an answer. It is quick, easy, to explain. “I’m a prisoner, sim trooper. Isn't this what you want? What else am I here for, other than to use as you all see fit?”

          A prisoner.

          A tool.

          “Nice try, but no.” Donut smiles sadly. ”Listen, I don’t know what your tragic backstory is supposed to be... What happened to you to make you think of people and yourself as  _ things. _ But I don’t think anyone’s born that way. I think the re’s some vestige of compassion in there, even if you don’t know it yet.”

          Locus scoffs. “You’re wrong.”

          Donut turns and faces him and Locus is met with piercing blue eyes. “Then why did you turn on Felix? Why are you helping us now?”

          He didn’t want to die. Felix was going to kill them both.

          But that doesn’t answer it all. Does it? Does it?

          The line from his arm to Sarge’s feels suddenly heavy. The needle pulls minutely on the skin inside his elbow.

          Why  _ is _ he helping them now?

          He wants revenge-?

          He wants-

          He-

          He doesn’t know.

          Sam doesn’t know.

          But Locus has an answer. It is quick, easy to explain. It always is.

          “I’ll never get off this planet if Hargrove wins.”

          Donut just shakes his head, disappointed.

          “The things you’ve done?” Donut says gravely. “You’re not getting off this planet either way, Sam.”

          Locus doesn’t reply.

          They sit in silence for a few minutes. When the New Republic medic comes rushing in with Grey coming in after, carrying a gurney holding Jenkins between them, Locus notices how Grey seems to  only give curt, analytical looks at Donut, and Sarge, and himself. When he'd first started working with the Feds, he'd mistaken her professionalism for apathy, and he'd approved. It wasn't till he’d suggested sacrificing the unfit as a distraction tactic that he'd truly seen the doctors teeth.

          No, he hadn't been scared of her. But he’d left her largely alone after that.

          They set Jenkins down quickly, but gently, next to Sarge, and the rebel medic and the assistants start moving the patients into a radius around them. Grey kneels down and scans Sarge with her medical tool, stern expression cracking into a small, relieved smile when she sees something she likes in the readings.

          She reaches for Sarge’s arm and the blood transfusion line. “Thank you,” She tells Locus, who removes the line from his arm as well. The smile’s still on her face, but he can tell that, for him, it’s strained. “He ought to be stable enough for transport now.”

          He and Donut back out to the perimeter of the room, and watch as,  one by one, the medical staff move the patients as close together as they can. The rebel medic exchanges a few words with Grey,, and then she and a few of the technicians leave the room entirely.

          “Take care of our leader, Em’!” Donut calls cheerfully. Grey’s expression is hidden by her helmet again, but she gives him a thumbs up, before pressing her thumb down on her teleportation grenade and just like that, other than the two men in the doorway, the room is empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOrrY TO ALL for the long long wait!!!
> 
> As you will see by the chapter.... a lot of things are happening, and this was the one bit of the fic I didn't have mapped out super well. Plus everyone kept fighting for POV, it was very strange to write hahah.
> 
> There is a bit at the beginning of this chapter that got axed, and I ended up glueing to the end of chapter 18 for the sake of flow. So there's even a bit more than you see here.
> 
> WE'RE REALLY GETTING TO THINGS AND I AM VERY EXCITED!!

          The last ditch is completed and the the last of the dynamite is placed less than five minutes before Carolina’s trackers go off.

          Hundreds of figures, approaching from West-South-West. She lets out a shaky breath. She’s faced worse odds in Freelancer.

          But this isn’t Freelancer.

          She calls over the radio for everyone to get to their positions, grabs her alien laser rifle off her shoulder, and hauls over to the barricade near the garage where Grif, Simmons, and Bitters are prepping their own sangheili weapons.

          “Is Grey clear?” Carolina asks Simmons, who’s stowing away the long range radio transponder between some boulders, where it’ll be shielded from gunfire.

          “Yeah, sounds like all the patients made the trip to HQ.” He replies. “Sarge is in surgery right now.”

          Carolina nods, and lets her worry for the old soldier sink to the back of her mind. A miniscule blip in the face of what lies ahead. He’ll be fine in Grey’s capable hands. Grif hands her some spare ammo and she pockets it. Hopefully the sangheili weapons will be enough on top of everything else, but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit she felt better with her pistols strapped to her hip.

          Three minutes later, and everyone confirms that they’re in position. Carolina eyes her tracker closely, waiting.

          “I don’t see anyone, man…” Grif mumbles. “Like, I guess the convoy could still be around that hill back there?”

          “What hill?” Simmons asks.

          “Uh that hill. Right there? Like a mile away?”

          “That’s not a hill, Grif, that’s a cliff. Look, it’s got a sheer face!”

          “Uh, it’s got a slope? It’s a hill. _You_ have a sheer face.”

          “It’s a cliff!!”

          “Hill.”

          “-Both of you shut up, You’re breaking my focus!” Carolina interjects. She’s glad to hear the two bickering as usual, after all that uncharacteristic… seriousness, from earlier, but this was not the time. “And they’re not all behind that far back, they’ve got active camo, remember?”

          Carolina’s never been one to back off an argument she can win though.

          “...Besides, it’s a mesa.”

          Simmons visibly inflates with indignation, and Grif chuckles. Bitters just looks bored as always. Carolina smiles and refocuses. The approach has slowed down. Now is the critical moment.  


          When the objects on her radar take the bait, settle in the foxholes, and begin to encircle the base, she breaks radio silence.

          “Now!”

          Small explosions pepper the ground, forcing dust and debris into the air, and water bursts with intense force from damaged pipes into the ditches, filling them about a foot deep in under thirty seconds. Her trackers show a few figures attempt to get out, but the majority seem to know to stay in the muddy pools. Those who make their ways to the banks no longer need freelancer tech to spot, and bright orange beams of light hit their now-partially-visible marks. She hears Polomo whoop and cheer somewhere off to her left as those few enemy soldiers disintegrate to ash, and blow away with the wind.

          It should be no more gruesome than hitting an enemy with a bullet, and yet… Carolina can’t help but think of how these kinds of weapons must have used against human soldiers in the Great War.

          They never did find Allison Church’s body.

          ...Now for part two. Carolina turns off her tracker, signals to Simmons, and pops up from cover, ready to fire.

          “Hit the switch, Volleyball!” Simmons says. The radio fizzles a bit as someone responds at a too-loud volume.

_“DOES FUCKING ANYBODY IN THIS GODDAMN ARMY KNOW MY FUCKING NAME!?!?!”_

          But a switch is hit. And arcs of electricity crawl through the water and up and around the figures in the water. 1400 volts exactly, just like Locus said.

          And, like magic, soldiers in grey and red appear in the waist deep moat. Carolina takes out five before they even realize that their camo units have been disabled, swallowing down nausea as their burning particles mix with the water they’re standing in, causing the liquid to bubble and froth.

          A good number of Charon’s soldiers are taken out before the remainder begin to use the foxholes as actual foxholes. Carolina catches herself before she asks Epsilon how many are left.

          “Alright.” Carolina shakes out her arms. “That’s all our plays. They’re gonna realize that they’re gonna need those reinforcements behind the cliff soon.”

          “Hah!”

          “Shut up. Mesa.”

          “Sooooo, what you’re saying is we’re gonna be here a while.” Grif says. “Good thing Bitters brought all those snacks, right Bitters?”

          “Uhhhh…”

          Grif’s helmet shakes disappointedly. “Bitters, I respect that total maverik move, but I want you to know. If we’re here for more than three days, I’m gonna make bacon out of your ass.”

 

          Bitters does the universal ‘eyes rolling beneath the helmet’ motion, while Simmons shoves Grif’s shoulder none-too-gently.

 

          “What?” Grif says. “I can’t make bacon out of _your_ ass, Simmons, it’s a fax machine!” He leans in close, and there’s something devious in his tone when he whispers. “But if you _really_ want me to eat your ass, you just have to ask nicely.”

 

          Carolina hits mute faster than she’s ever hit any button in her life, and luckily only gets a split second of Simmons’s shriek assaulting her eardrums before it’s cut off.

 

 

* * *

 

          The Charon soldiers don’t seem to know what to do.

 

          It becomes increasingly obvious to them that they’re stuck. They attempt to make one, large, break for it, but they’re pinned so completely, that after another third of their remaining forces are taken out, the majority is still stuck in cold, waist-deep water. Other than that one failed attempt at retreat, and some random bursts of gunfire, the day is uneventful. The rebels and feds  run into some trouble when the sun begins to set, as the bright glowing lights of their alien weaponry makes the Chorusian Army’s positions extremely apparent. But there’s only three non-lethal casualties before someone figures out that throwing some mud on them covers the lights pretty well.

          Carolina alternates turning her trackers on for a minute, and then off for two, to save power, but it seems like Locus had been correct in predicting that Charon would send all its camouflage units in the first wave, hoping to overwhelm them before sending in the bulk of their forces. No reinforcements make their way forward though, which throws Carolina off. They’re not going to starve the Chorisians out. What could they possibly be waiting for?

 

          Her answer doesn’t come until the next morning.

 

          Carolina gets woken from her cat-nap early at dawn, with Donut gently tapping at her shoulder. Donut and Locus replaced Bitters several hours ago, who’s off with Polomo and Volleyball at another barricade. Donut’s handing her her helmet, and she gratefully accepts it, switching it with the pink helmet on her own head. It was nice of Donut to check the trackers while she slept, but his helmet smelled overwhelmingly of some sort of fruity soap, and it meant she was waking up with a bit of a headache.

          “Over there. We’ve got movement.” He tells her, and Carolina quickly scans the horizon.

          He’s correct, there’s a cloud of dust in the distance, and when she zooms in her optics, she can see the line of vehicles making steady pace towards them.

          “Are they insane?” Locus says quietly beside her (stubbornly ignoring Simmons’s quiet “Look who’s talking.” and Grif’s laugh) .“The alien armaments burn right through conventional shielding, we sent them the test results ourselves; they don’t stand a chance.”

          Locus is right, Carolina thinks. But this was clearly not a suicide run: the soldiers in the ditches weren’t being radioed to prepare for a full out assault; otherwise they’d be getting ready now… Instead, they were starting to take more and more potshots-

          Carolina grabs Grif’s alien rifle (it’s the closest, he shouts in protest anyways) and frantically scratches the clay off of the barrel.

          There’s no light on.

          Oh _fuck_.

          She moves past Simmons, who’s just saying swear words now with increasing pitch and volume, to the radio. Sets the broadcast to every soldier on their side.

          “Alien guns are offline!! Everyone switch to traditional weaponry ASAP, assault incoming!!”

          People across the base audibly swear, as she gets confirmation, the first fatal casualty is reported in.

          Carolina swaps to her pistols, and thanks whatever deity who may or may not be up there that she thought to have them so close at hand. She puts down cover fire as she sees Polomo try to sneak over to the armory to get more guns and ammunition. However, that’s a hard thing to do when there’s about fifty guys on the other side shooting at everyone. Polomo gets hit and goes down.

          “Fuck!” Carolina screams through clenched teeth, and activates the speed unit. In two seconds she has Polomo in her arms, and is back behind cover.

          “Pomo!”

          He’s definitely conscious, so that’s a good sign, and as Carolina gives him a proper look over, she sees he was hit in the knee. Probably can’t walk then. Definitely can’t run.

          “Ah! Ow! My name’s not- oh ow ow ow!!”

          “Why did you go out of cover!? Why didn’t you have back-up weaponry here!?” She asks, stabbing his leg with the point of her biofoam pen. Polomo hisses as the pen injects.

          “We _had_ back-up weapons- Ow! Just not enough for all of us!”

          And it’s at this moment that Carolina remembers these are children. And children didn’t just mean big eyes and acne and silly priorities. Children also meant they did dumb shit like forget things. They shouldn’t be here, fighting, in the first place.

          They had children fighting professionals, and they were going to get slaughtered.

          Carolina hands Polomo one of her pistols and a spare pack of ammo, then zips off again. When she slows down she’s at the armory, frantically rifling through crates. She opens up her radio channel with the reds.

          “Donut, what size would you say Locus is?” She asks as she piles up several rifles and ammunition to the side.

          “42 inch chest, 35 waist, 39 seat, 36 inseam.”

          “Wha- No I mean for armor!” She says.

          “Oh! Sorry! XL for sure!”

          “Thanks.” She grabs the correct size from the bin. “Uh, How did you know all that other stuff?”

          “Oh honey, it’s a gift.”

          She shakes her head and heads over to another bin and pulls out a spare helmet and codes in their radio channels and encryptions as fast as she can. Then, piling up all the ammo, weapons and armor into her arms in a way that it won’t all go flying, heads back outside, full-speed.

          She stops by Polomo’s baricade, where he and Bitters and others from Simmons’s squad are holding down pretty well, and drops supplies at their feet. Polomo makes to thank her, but she’s already on her way back to Donut and Simmons and the others. She thrusts the armor and a rifle at Locus, who just looks as close to shocked as she’s seen him yet, before accepting them.

          “Suit up,” Carolina ignores the reds’ looks. “Radio channel alpha goes directly to me. Beta to the reds if you need them. If you try to input anything else, It will ping me, got it?”

          Time for the professional to fight _for_ these children.

          Locus nods and quickly gears up. Over the barricade, Carolina prepares to activate her trackers, but it’s not necessary.

          The cavalry’s here.

         

* * *

 

 

          It’s brutal.

          Carolina does her best keeping the posts supplied, and move the wounded into the base for Renata to take care of, but the base itself is beginning to look like it might not be safe to retreat into anymore, as the damage from Tucker’s infiltration and the barrage from the artillery on the enemy vehicles start to take their toll. Slowly, they start to lose ground, as Charon forces make their way up through the fields and muddy terrain to grab cover from the Chorusians. Carolina shoots a soldier cleanly through the visor, but not before he’s pumped lead into the gut of one of Grif’s squad point blank. She looks at the wound and immediately sees that he won’t make it, half his intestines spilled out onto the ground, and blood leaking from under his helmet. A puncture in his lung, most likely. He’s drowning in his own blood. Carolina doesn’t let either of those things kill him, and she puts him out of his misery.

          She shuts down her nausea. Doesn’t let herself think about how he should have been in school. Doesn’t let herself do anything but move to the next soldier. The next professional. The next _target_.

          She gets hit in the shoulder, stumbles, and whips down behind cover. Luckily it just glanced her armor, but the round was heavy enough to knock her off balance. The damn vehicles were the real trouble here: Soldiers behind the mounted turrets were impossible to touch, and no one could get close enough to lob a grenade.

          Well... almost no one.

          She sees a Warthog on the other side of the battle field explode, and hears a jovial “Attacking the rear!” from Donut somewhere to the right. She’d heard the story from Tucker once about how Donut had hit Tex with a grenade from the opposite side of Blood Gulch once, but only now does she really appreciate the accuracy of that ridiculous claim.

          She clears a path up one side and then books in around the car. Suddenly she’s too close for the turret to fire on her, and when the gunman finally notices, she’s already killed the driver and is swinging up next to him. A kick to the face sends him to the ground, and a round in his chest takes him out for good.

          Carolina slaps her pistol back to its magstrap, turns the turret onto the next jeep, locks her arms against the recoil and fires away. She manages to take out two more before foot soldiers try to surround her, but by the time they do, Donut has arrived with Locus right behind him. Between the three of them, they make short work of the group.

          Carolina wastes no time searching for any allies that may be pinned back towards the direction of the base, and shouts into her radio to try to drown out the cover fire she begins to lay down.

          “Donut, Locus! Get on those other turrets! We have to take out the other jeeps before-”

          Carolina doesn’t hear the rocket at all.

          There’d been a few artillery-carrying vehicles, but all their fire had been focused on the base itself, so seeing the line of the smoke trail in her peripheral didn’t spark any kind of alarm in Carolina’s mind. It’s not until it’s too late to leap out of the way that she notices the trajectory.

          And yet. There’s a part of her. A neural pathway that she reaches for that she shouldn’t be able to touch… One with a huge, cavernous, Epsilon-shaped void yawning ominously in the center of her mind’s-eye. She finds herself stretching for it and suddenly-

          The bubble shield springs to life, and she can’t tell if the blinding light is the yellow of the force field, or the flames engulfing her. It’s a thought that flits through her mind in a split second, because Carolina is flying through the air. She’s barely aware of gravity before it makes itself known with a brutal _whump-thump_ of a landing.

          She sluggishly becomes aware of the mud she’s lying in and how it’s sticking to her arms, and then how her armor blinks it’s warning of low power, before the HUD fades out entirely.

          She breaks her gaze off of the dirt artfully speckled against the cyan of her forearm guard and looks around for Donut and Locus. Donut is a few feet away from her, looking stunned, but alive. Carolina feels relief, but then finds her gaze is drawn past him. Past Locus on the ground, still. Past the bodies, past the mud. Past the smoke of the burning Warthog… to the figure emerging out of it with a RPG launcher resting on it’s shoulder, and the familiar slope of it’s helmet.

_No._

_That’s impossible._

_He’s dead!_

          She’s lost her pistol, but Locus’s rifle catches her eye only a few feet ahead.

          Crawling to it is agonizing. There’s not a drop of juice left in her armor anymore, nothing going to any of the hydraulic joints, her HUD is blank and skewed, helmet knocked loose, and forget enhancements. Carolina pulls all one-thousand four-hundred and fifty-six pounds of it over to the rifle, and then, slowly, wearily, using every measure of strength she has, manages to push herself up to her feet.

          The ghost cocks its head curiously.

          Lining up the shot is the hardest thing Carolina’s ever done. Every fiber of her muscles are pulled taut, every limb, shaking from the effort of fighting gravity. It’s not steady. It’s not by the book. For some reason, she thinks of Tex. What would she say if she could see Carolina now? Back in the day, blinded as she was by distrust and competitiveness, she would think Tex would mock her, for not being strong enough, _never strong enough_. But now? Carolina think she’d be proud.

          Funny how the idea of that doesn’t bug her anymore.

          She pulls the trigger.

          The bullet is absorbed by blue light, not that it was a direct hit anyways, and the recoil is too much: the gun drops from her arms.

          The ghost laughs, but it’s not Felix’s voice she hears.

          “Oh, you really are everything they said you were, Miss Church!”

          Carolina is still catching her breath, knees locked, she won’t fall down, but it doesn’t matter. She can’t move, and it’s taking everything in her not to crumple to the ground and just _give up_ in the face of this new, unknown opponent with a light irish accent. It’s too much. Her head’s still spinning from the blast, she doesn’t have it in her to put together who this person is.

          Not-Felix shoulders the RPG as they slowly meander towards Carolina, and then stop just out of arm’s reach. They give Carolina an appraising look.

          Now that they’re this close, Carolina can better notice the differences in height and frame. That the orange and silver had been painted over with a dark gray. They continue speaking. “I can only imagine what we could have done with _you_ instead of that lecherous, trouble-making idiot.”

_Tucker?_

          “What… what did you people _do to him?_ ” Carolina manages to get out.

          “Turned him into the weapon we need to win this.” The cold, clinical way the soldier says this hurts Carolina more than the weight of her armor pressing on her shoulders. “I don’t think we’ve ever met, by the way, Commander Miriam Hawley. I know of you, of course. Even before all the garbage with Director Church... I trained your mother for special forces in the Great War.”

          If there was ever a sequence of words that could put fire back into Carolina’s blood, that was them. Her strike is slow, clumsy, and Hawley blocks it with barely a care. Carolina throws a punch, barely gets a kick off the ground, but neither land. Hawley sounds impressed when she speaks again, and it fills Carolina with rage.

          “The lights of your armor are off… Impressive. You really are Allison’s daughter.” The sound of a smile tint’s Hawley’s voice. “Now _there_ was a great soldier… Talented, motivated, just a dash bloodthirsty. Willing to do whatever it took to get the job done. A great weapon, she was, against the aliens. Oh, I can only imagine what kind of weapon _you_ would have made, dear. ”

          Carolina lets the fire in her veins propel her fist straight to Hawley’s neck, but the woman seems to be done playing. Quicker than anyone without an armor enhancement has the right to be, Hawley grabs Carolina’s wrist and other arm, and twists them both behind her back. Carolina can’t hold her weight anymore and finally falls to her knees when Hawley gives a slight push. Inexplicably, Carolina hears the _click_ of handcuffs, and is then dropped to the ground, mud splattering her visor.

          “If you’re still alive by the time we’ve dealt with your forces, maybe I’ll still get to find out.” She taps Carolina on the head. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back fo-”

          “No! Y-you’re dead!”

          Seems like Locus has woken up.

          “You again!” Her hand flies to her hip, and pulls up her pistol. “I should have figured it was too much to hope that Owolabi ended up setting those coordinates to a volcano after all!”

          She shoots, but Locus scrambles out of the way into cover, and seems to have found Carolina’s pistol in the mud. Hawley snaps up her arm and Felix’s shield comes to life just in time to stop a relentless hail of bullets from returning.

          “His armor!! _Why are you wearing his armor!?!?”_

          “Please,” Hawley spits back. “After that stunt you pulled!? My armor was good enough to keep me alive, can’t say that for my assistants,  but it was no longer field-worthy. Luckily, we had this expensive, top-of-the-line number right under our noses. A few installations later and...”

          Hawley runs out of bullets, but instead of switching clips, her silhouette shimmers, and she goes invisible.

          “It’s almost as good.”

          Locus comes flying out from behind his cover a few seconds later, and Carolina can’t help but taste the irony of Locus getting assaulted by an invisible opponent. He drops Carolina’s pistol right in front of her, but there’s no way she can get a shot off. Not with her arms chained behind her back…

          The sword.

          The sword is her back pouch.

          Carolina’s struggles begin anew, fumbling with the latch on the armor compartment, while Locus gets brutally beaten over and over again not two meters away.

          “You couldn’t have just died nice and quick at the basecamp, couldn’t you!? Or just stayed out of our goddamn way!!?” Locus is knocked to the ground, and Hawley has a foot on his chest. “Couldn’t have just put all that shit with your partner aside for five goddamn minutes and do what you were paid to do!” She kicks him in the faceplate, and it cracks. “What you _lived to do!!!??_ ”

          Carolina gets her hands on the sword.

          “LOCUS!”

          For the first time since the downfall, Carolina is thankful. Thankful for the training, the steroids, the surgeries, _everything._ Thankful to her piece-of-shit father and every horrible goddamn thing Project Freelancer stood for. Because without them, she would never have the strength, the mental fortitude, to lift over five hundred pounds of armor with her arms alone, behind her back, to toss a small silver handle through the air, directly to it’s target.

          Locus catches the sword, and ignites it in a slash toward Hawley’s face.

          She clearly doesn’t expect in and reels back, but Locus still cuts a deep gouge into her chestplate. Hawley screams in rage and the fight picks up again, slightly more evened out.

          If Carolina had been surprised by Locus and Felix’s level of skill at hand-to-hand, then she doesn’t even know what to say to describe what it is that Hawley does. The woman is a machine: every move efficient, deliberate, _deadly._ Even ducking, weaving, and dodging around a plasma sword looks like she’s practiced it a thousand times, and the hits she gets on Locus only barely fail at making him lose his balance or his grip on his weapon. She eventually lands a stomp on Locus’s foot that causes him to stumble, and immediately takes advantage, throwing a switch kick right into his chest, slamming him back against the burning carcass of the blown-up warthog.

          Locus barely has a second to recoup before dodging something flying towards his face. The knife sticks into the metal plating where his head was only a split second ago. A knife with orange trim.

          When Hawley comes at him again, Locus takes the full force of the punch to his face in order to grab the knife, ripping it out of the car. Hawley quickly takes control of his arms, and they both grapple for the upper hand.

          “What was the point, Locus?” Hawley hisses. “Why forgo all we had to offer? They’ll never accept you here. You’re a dead man no matter which way this goes.”

          “Locus is already dead.” He says, struggling. “It’s Sam now.”

          Hawley decides to go for the knife, and it’s almost at his throat before he wrests his other arm out of her grip, and plunges his sword right through her abdomen.

          Hawley screams. It breaks off into gasps for air and yells of pain, that get hoarser and quieter, before Locus pushes her back, and the old woman falls to the ground at his feet.

          It’s familiar to Carolina, somehow, like all that time back at the communications tower when Locus had knocked her down during hand-to-hand, or the thrum of fear that had pulsed in her gut at the battle for the Purge Tower. When she’d bounced off the platform, a hair away from dropping down into razor sharp red crystals, like bloody teeth. That feeling of doubt. Locus stands there, blood on his armor shiny and glistening from the light of his sword. As he turns to look at her, a feeling she never had been much acquainted with trickles down her spine. Like prey in a trap, Carolina becomes increasingly aware of her handcuffs as he takes a step towards her.

          She doesn’t release her breath until the sword goes through the cuffs. She still can’t really move, but the symbolism of the gesture is enough to tamper down her anxiety a bit.

          “How’s Donut?” She asks. Locus looks to her left, where Carolina assumes Donut passed out. He moves over to the pink soldier, out of Carolina’s line of sight (and yeah, she does not have it in her to try moving her head right now).

          Some scraping sounds of ceramic against ceramic tell her little of what’s going on, but when a moment later Locus says “Unconscious, no visible damage. Might be concussed though.” Carolina assumes he’s taken Donut’s helmet off.

          “The rest of Red team just reported in too, we have control of most of the vehicles now. Charon’s forces are being driven back.” He comes back into her line of sight. “Do you… want a hand up?”

          Carolina wants to roll her eyes, but she can sort of see what this is. Some sort of… repayment?

          “It wasn’t out of the kindness of my heart, Locus. I had no interest in finding out what the Commander had in store for me there.” Carolina huffs.

          "Then why did you bring the key with you at all?" Locus asks.

          "...Figured it couldn't hurt." Is the only way she knows how to reply. Intuition has almost always served her well, she's just glad it didn't fail her this time.

          “Anyways, I’d appreciate a jumpstart. Suit’s dead.”

          Locus reaches back to pull a power cord from his suit’s fusion pack. A few moments later, Carolina’s HUD flickers back to life, and she can flex her fingers again without wanting to scream. She pulls herself out of the dirt and muck, and moves to sit back against the Warthog next to Donut, who’s stirring.

          “...mmmmmm Carolina?” He mumbles. “Did you take my helmet again…?”

          “It’s right here Donut.” She hands it over to him.

          He takes it, and a dopey grin takes over his face. “Oh! Nice… Thank you..!” And then he promptly vomits into it.

          Right. Concussion.

          Carolina fixes her own helmet up so that it’s properly sealed again and radios the rest of red team. Simmons confirms that the battle is looking pretty decided now that they have control of most of the heavy weaponry, the tractor tower sustained some heavy damage, but is still functioning. Carolina lets out a breath before standing. Better clean up what’s left.

          “Locus, are you injured?”

          “Nothing important.”

          Good enough.

          “Donut? Can you stand?”

          Donut’s not throwing up any more, but he’s also not looking at her. “Uhhhh… Carolina?”

          Carolina and Locus both whip their heads around. Behind them, Hawley has her hands on the rocket launcher. Her guts spill out in a trail behind her, perfectly illustrating how she’s crawled from where Locus had eviscerated the woman. Blood is still bubbling profusely from the gash more or less bisecting her.

          Her arms shake.

          She lifts the RPG.

          Carolina has a hand on her pistol and is firing away before her mind even registers what the woman is aiming at, but the bullets hit their mark a second too late.

          Carolina, Locus, and Donut watch in horror as the rocket screams past them and flies full speed towards the Tractor Tower. As it hits the abused exterior and the cracks web around the structure.

          As the golden light in the sky flickers out, and the tower falls.


	20. Chapter 20

          Grey returns with a bang, some assistants, and many new patients.

          Sarge isn’t the worst off, apparently, and Grey is doing the two most pressing surgeries first, almost at the same time; alternating between the them when what needs to be done can be handled by one of her assistants. Wash takes Caboose to the almost-empty cafeteria in the meantime, where they both sit at a table and sip unenthusiastically at their soup, waiting. Wash  picks at the cracks on the table surface, idly wonders how much soap Grey must be going through, pictures her washing her hands furiously every time she has to switch patients. That was a thing, right? He’d seen it on some medical drama, a long, long time ago.

          Wash snaps out of his thoughts when Caboose falls face-first onto the table and starts snoring dramatically.

          How long has he been awake? Since before he and Locus ran into Tucker?

          How long has _Wash_ been awake?

          Getting Caboose up again is a challenge, but Wash manages it. Walking them both down the hallways back to the room with their bunks in it is a little easier, since Caboose, even half asleep, seems to know where they’re headed. Upon entering, Caboose immediately flops down onto his bed, clutches his blanket to his chest, and is out like a light. Wash wants to say something about sleeping in the armor, still covered in mud and vegetation, but doesn’t really have it in him to fight an already-lost battle, or wake Caboose a second time, so he sits down on the floor in front of the next bed over, and leans back against the frame.

          Wash eyes the pack of cigarettes on Simmons’s bed, but the feeling of static in his chest has him think better of it. He’d quit smoking before even joining the army, but it’s been a hell of a long day, and it’s nowhere near over yet. He can’t say he wouldn’t care for something to calm his nerves.

          He fiddles with his helmet in his lap. Turns the radio up just enough that he can hear it, but soft enough that it won’t disturb Caboose. Not that it probably would: the man can, and has, slept through bombastic attacks by the Reds, polka music blaring and all. But there’s something peaceful and fragile about being in a darkened room, only the soft snores of his teammate nearby, that makes Wash not want to break it with the tinny sounds of the Federal Representative broadcasting updates on Beat Cliff. The attack has started. Everything seems to be going to plan.

          Wash wonders if Carolina knows how cruel it is to keep him so far from the action.

          After the third or fourth cycle of the broadcast, with no updates, Wash feels his eyelids grow heavy and, well, it’s not exactly sleep, but his head is leaning back against the mattress, and eventually sound and time start to run together as he falls into a doze.

          Wash has weird dreams. Not his typical, crystal clear nightmares either. More like the bizarre kind you only get when you eat something funny before bed. There’s one where he’s a gardener, and some asshole keeps messing with his plants when he leaves them. Another where he’s babysitting a young Carolina, but she keeps growing old, and then young again, and Wash can’t tell who’s babysitting whom.

          And one where... he’s trying to make chocolate cake, but the eggs in the fridge are the silly plastic easter kind and they are filled with confetti, the same kind from Caboose’s gun and- and suddenly it’s Freckles’s birthday. It’s important that the cake be perfect, so Wash goes to the grocery store. He finds the eggs he needs, but they’re all cracked and runny when he opens the cartons to check them. Someone walks up to him in blinding white armor, with a dome shaped helmet, but the apron suggests they’re an employee, and they start accusing him of vandalizing the store with all this egg gunk, and _no sir, I just, I just need eggs for a cake. For a party. You see, I haven’t seen my friend in a while and maybe- maybe he’ll be there, but I need to make this cak-_

          Grey’s voice breaks through the buzz of the Fed’s broadcast, much louder than his regular setting. Direct channel then. He processes that before he realizes what she’s saying.

          “Sarge is up for surgery now, thought you’d like to know!”

          She sounds harried and clipped and hangs up without waiting for a response. Wash slowly stands and stretches his sore neck, before shaking Caboose awake again.

          When they arrive at the medical wing, the operation is already well underway, so they simply wait outside in the hallway. It’s about two hours of Caboose nervously tapping his feet, and Wash pacing around, obsessively flipping between radio channels for any updates, before Grey exits the doors with blood-covered gloves and a tired smile.

          “He’ll be alright.” She says, dropping her gloves in the trash. “He’s being moved to recovery, if you guys want to see him.”

          Wash puts a hand on Caboose’s elbow, and they make their way to where Sarge is being kept. They stop in their tracks just short of the doorway when they catch sight of the Red leader on the gurney.

          He looks _awful_.

          Wash hears a small, agitated whine from Caboose.

          “Tucker did _this?_ ” He asks, horrified.

          Bruises the sizes of dinner plates mar the old man’s skin. One on his forehead reaches through his brow, over his swollen eye, and ends halfway down the bent and broken nose, speckled black, blue and red. An intubation tube runs out of his mouth, and he has a neck brace, a cast on his arm, and on both of his legs. He almost looks like a cartoon of what an injured person looks like, except it’s _Sarge._ Sarge who has a manic look in his eye at all times, and doesn’t know how to keep his voice down.

          Not this silent, still figure laid out before them.

          Wash doesn’t know what to say. Part of him denies it. Tucker couldn’t have done _this_ . Tucker was- _is_ crass, and sharp, and funny, and caring… not like him, not like Carolina. Not like Locus or Felix. Tucker wasn’t capable of this kind of detached brutality. Tucker couldn’t have beaten a man he’s known for years within an inch of his life. Tucker _wouldn’t._

          But denying it doesn’t make the bruises fade.

          They sit by Sarge for a while. Caboose telling him stories. Wash sitting in silence, fingering the edge of the photograph he has still in his pocket. Thinking of what Charon possibly could have done to Tucker to make him act this way. Torture? Not likely. Blackmail? More so. But that didn’t explain how one of his closest friends in years has suddenly become a one-man killing machine.

          You don’t bash in a man’s head like that because you _have_ to.

          You do it because you _want_ to.

          Or… because-

          Wash stands suddenly and goes back out into the hall to pace. He flips through his radio again, finally coming on the officer’s channel, halfway between Kimball and the Federal Army representative updating each other.

          He takes his helmet off and breathes.

          Grey comes around the corner with a hard look in her eyes, but it changes faster than lightning when she catches sight of Wash. Her full toothed grin does little to convince Wash that she is feeling up for a smile that broad.

          “Doctor, “ Wash nods at her in greeting. “On break?”

          “Oh no silly! Surgeries are over! There’s nothing more for me to do!”

          Ah. Her initial upset expression makes more sense. Can’t save everyone.

          “Can’t sleep.” She continues. “Figured I’d come check up on the illustrious red leader!”

          “Well,” Wash says. “He’s the same as before. Caboose is still sitting with him.”

          “Mhmm, any particular reason you’re not with him too?” Grey responds. “You know, I’m still against you being up and about. Maybe it’s _you_ I should be checking in with.”

          She makes to yank him to her eye-level by his armor’s chest piece, hand already pulling out a tongue depressor from nowhere, before Wash quickly steps out of her reach.

          “I’m fine. Really. Look, my voice isn’t even raspy anymore!” He stammers out. “No, I just needed a minute away from-”

          Grey looks at him expectantly when he trails off. Wash sighs and runs his hands through his hair. He continues, somewhat unwillingly.

          “Look if Tucker… If he really did that to Sarge, and the other soldiers at Beat Cliff. How are we supposed to stop Charon? How are we supposed to save him?” He walks over to the row of chairs by the wall, reaches them, thinks better of it, and starts to pace again. “I mean, we don’t even know how they’re using him! Donut said he seemed… possessed.”

          Grey is keeping a very careful eye on him. He gives in and sits heavily in one of the chairs. It screeches on the floor and it makes Wash’s ears hurt.

          “I think…. I think they’ve messed with his brain.”

          Epsilon wouldn’t hurt him. Not like he hurt Wash. _He wouldn’t._

          But he _could_.

          “And I think…” Wash gets quieter. “I think they’re using Epsilon to do it.”

          “What makes you say that, Wash?” Grey asks.

          The claw marks on his chest throb. He could tell her. He trusts her enough. But no one knows. No one else but _him._

          It’s on the tip of his tongue, but saying it makes it real again-

          And then he doesn’t have to.

          The alarm blasts through the hallway, echoed around the base, unsynchronized, and Wash falls into the unfortunately comfortable rhythm of emergency, all other thoughts fading away. Falling through his fingers, hands snapping cleanly into the motions of protocol. He locks his helmet on and turns on the radio.

_“-Wash! Washington!”_ Kimball’s hailing him. _“Get to the war room now! Bring Caboose with you!!”_

          Grey seems to know exactly what’s happening; it doesn’t take much guesswork. She follows Wash into Sarge’s room, and scans the monitors, while Wash pulls Caboose from his chair.

          “C’mon bud, we’ve gotta go.” 

          Caboose perks up a little bit. “Ah! Yes. Alright. Time for us to save the day?”

          Wash sighs.

          “I sure hope so.”

 

* * *

 

          The War Room has all the broadcast equipment piled into about two thirds of it, and Kimball is calling orders into a mic next to the Fed running everything when Wash and Caboose arrive, Grey trailing close behind them. Kimball sees them enter, and turns to them the moment she’s done.

          “As you’ve probably already guessed, Beat Cliff tower has been knocked down.” She runs her hand through her hair, making it even more of a mess than it already is. “Carolina just reported in. All our ships are being deployed now, an assault on all Charon’s freighters is our only option. We have to move fast, we don’t know how long these ships are gonna take to start lifting off, and we can’t afford _any_ of them to get in orbit.”

           Wash balks, “Hargrove’s not even going to pick up his own men from the surface first?”

          Kimball smirks humorlessly, “Yeah, a real gentleman, that one.” She motions at a few papers on her desk, and picks up a box next to them. “Our intelligence reports that Hargrove is on the flagship. We can’t risk any one of the freighters to make it off-planet, but we _definitely_ can’t let Hargrove go. Stopping him is now our number one priority.”

          She opens the box. Inside are two teleportation grenades. Wash instinctively reaches for them, but Kimball moves it away. Her voice takes on a somber note.

          “It means if we have to go through Tucker to do it,” She says quietly. “We will. Do you understand?”

          Years now, shooting the shit, riling each other up, sharing quiet moments when Wash can’t sleep and Tucker finds him wandering the halls of their base at night. Drinking with the Reds, and fixing up Caboose’s messes. The barbs of insults and sting of meaningless arguments. In hindsight, they were the pinch of the needles sewing his psyche back together again.

          Wash can’t even feel bad about what he says. Tucker did the same for him, how could he do any less? It went beyond wanting your team back together, it was that someone out there had cared enough about him, to break the rules, break trust, risk it all for him. So this? This was beyond repayment. This is Wash realizing that he would risk it all, break it all for Tucker as well.

          He is going to bring him home, no matter what.

          Wash lies through his teeth.

          “I understand.”  


 

* * *

 

          Tucker’s giddiness at Church’s return is rather short-lived, as he recounts to the AI what happened while he’d been out of commission on the trip back from the temple. Being reminded of how close he’d been, the feeling of Caboose’s arms around him, and the lack of knowledge on whether or not Caboose and Locus had gotten in contact with the others drags down his mood again considerably.

          “Could you at least hack the radios or something?” Tucker whispers, wary of the guards on the ship, and especially wary of the scientist who looks murderously at his own hand, skin charred off to reveal silver. A prosthetic, then. “Figure out what’s going on?”

          <All the radios on these transport ships are analogue, so no, not really.> Church huffs in response. <But once we get back on the Staff of Charon I can see what’s going on there. We just need to be in range.>

          “Aha.”

          <Also, isn’t it _bad news_ if Charon knows what’s going on with Kimball’s peop->

          The ship swerves dramatically and both Tucker and Church brace for impact. One ship crash in a week is about Tucker’s limit, thank you very much, but the ship rights itself again and the pilot apologizes profusely.

          The scientist looks like he’s about to lose it, and storms up to the cockpit, seemingly to yell at the pilot, but he stops short as they make it through a cloud.

          The sky is blue.

          The hair on Tucker’s skin raises, and his eyes widen. “Oh fuck…”

          <They took another tower down?> Church sounds affronted. <Without us?>

          Tucker remembers suddenly what Locus had boasted discovering…

_Hargrove’s managed to transport over half his troops to the ground camp from his various freighters. Number’s around seven hundred soldiers. More than enough to overrun any of the Chorusian outposts, even without vehicles._

          Church takes a second to process Tucker’s recollection. <Oh fuck.> It’s like a whisper, but the realization that dawns on him feels as loud and grand as a symphony. <Tucker, the Staff of Charon can leave. There’s not enough power keeping it down!>

          Tucker’s mind fires at a rapid pace. Minimal guards, the ship’s navigation system is an isolated server, he knows well enough the layout of the ship by now... and, it’s not really a plan. You can’t call something a plan, if it’s the only course of action you can really take.

          “How far are we from the ship?” Tucker says, air barely passing through his lips. Not that the guards would notice. They’re all peering out the windows, jubilant expressions on their faces. They want to go home.

          Well, so does Tucker.

          <I can sense a signal.> Church replies. <No more than five minutes.>

          Tucker scans the guards. The quiet one was the biggest, but also nearest the front of the ship. He had knives though, and Tucker will have to expect that he’ll throw them. The one who’d defended Hawley’s deceased assistant has knives as well, but more importantly: Tucker’s sword. The man seemed skittish, attentive; Tucker won’t be lifting the weapon from his belt without him noticing. Then closest to Tucker, a medium sized guy. The closer two guards have pistols. Tucker can work with that.

          And that just leaves the scientist and the pilot.

          Tucker waits until pistol guard’s attention lapses when he takes a look out the window to see the Staff of Charon grow larger, no longer surrounded by golden beams of light. Tucker jumps out of his seat and throws his arms over the shoulders of the guard. His handcuffs make a great garrote, and a kick between the man’s shoulder blades is all it takes to snap his spine. The man doesn’t even have time to yell.

          Tucker brings his hands back around fast, and then squats down, staying behind the body, hearing the _THWK THWK_ of the thrown knives hitting his meat shield. Two knives. That’s all he had. He grabs the pistol and downs the man who has his sword with two clean shots to the throat. The scientist is already barricading himself in the cockpit with the pilot, but that doesn’t matter right now. Knives guy is making beeline for the second guard’s body, and his pistol. Church helpfully lets Tucker know that the pistol in his hand only has two shots left.

          He shoots one. Misses.

          Second shot. Barely digs into the meat of the man’s shoulder.

          Tucker swears and tackles him before he can grab hold of the pistol. Tucker’s not heavy enough to stun him, not with the other soldier in power armor, but he hits right where his center of gravity can’t save him, and their momentum gets them both to roll off the body. Tucker manages at the last second to grab his sword. He ignites it and in one slash, it’s all over.

          Tucker hurries over to the door barring the hold from the cockpit, hesitating only to cut his handcuffs. Opening it is short work, ship filling with smoke as the metal, plastic, and paint, sear, burn, and melt when Tucker’s sword cuts through the door like butter.

          Except. Of course. The scientist has a gun too.

          The Pilot is shouting code into the radio but trails off as Tucker stands there, looking down the end of the barrel. It’s a weird, silent standoff, until the Scientist starts talking.

          “You are going to put that down.” The man’s voice is shaking with rage. “You’re going to put it down, and you will return to your seat.”

          Tucker doesn’t move. Instead. He looks at the hand. The hand burned by the temple. The bionic prosthetic, who’s chrome, wirey finger is curled around the trigger. There’s something about it, Church can feel-

          Ah.

          It’s not just the hand.

          It’s the whole arm.

          Tucker can almost feel it. How it lifts and presses the barrel into the man’s head, as if it were his own limb. A phantom sensation that makes his breath catch in his chest.

          That has him flinch as the scientist blows his own brains out.

          “WHAT THE FUCK!?” Tucker shouts, arm tensing, like he’s making sure it’s his own. “What the FUCK was that!?”

          <I hacked his prosthetic and saved your life is what that was,> Epsilon replies. <You’re welcome!>

          Tucker wants to yell, wants to scream, because there’s a lot of freaky shit that’s happened to him over the past couple of months. Over the past week, even. But that was the most horrifying thing he’s experienced. He could feel the arm lift up like it was him _shooting his own head_ . But He files away his anger for now because the Pilot is staring open-mouthed at him, and not ahead at _where he’s supposed to be flying._  

          “Hey. You wanna live?” Tucker glares at him. “Pay attention to the road. I mean, sky. Whatever! Also, you’re gonna go on the radio, and tell them everything’s fine.”

          The pilot shuts his mouth and nods his head. Tucker ignores the quiet whimpering, and stands slightly behind him, glow of the sword still very visible in the reflection of the flight instruments. When the pilot goes on the radio, Tucker waves the sword up and down a little, the plasma humming against the air a bit in a threatening manner. The pilot gulps, and starts spouting code.

          <Yeah…. Uh...> Church says. <So he’s actually telling them that you got loose.>

          “How do you know that?”

          <Please, the handbook was like the first thing I downloaded when I hacked the ship.>

          Tucker groans in frustration, but they’re in front of the landing bay, and it’s too late to do anything about it anyways. The moment the ship touches down, Tucker deactivates his sword, and bashes the pilot on the head with the handle, knocking him out cold.

          <He might wake up, you know.> Church chides.

          “Yeah well, I’m not a murderer, dude.” Tucker snaps back. “He’s the only one on that ship who didn’t try to shoot me.”

          Church ‘shrugs’ and warns him of approaching soldiers. Tucker books it to the upper level, tracing the path to the armory in his mind.

          “Can you find me a clear path, or do I need to go pick up the armor?”

          Church whirs for a moment while he sifts through surveillance camera footage. <There are hardly any personnel on the ship, actually.> He says. <But the bridge has turrets. I’d say we go grab it.>

          “Can’t you just hack them?”

          <No, they’re hosted on the isolated server which is->

          “Which is on the bridge. Right.”

          <It’s not so bad.> Church says. <Once we’re in the room, I can disable everything. Including the navigation. Hargrove won’t be going anywhere.>

          As they pass by Tucker’s room, he glances through the open door and sees the orange still on the floor. His stomach growls, but all it does is make him more determined.

          “No way we can stop by the cafeteria first, huh?”

          <Ha, I don’t think so.>

          “Figures.”

          He jumps back into the maintenance hatch he and Church had snuck their way through so long ago. However, this time when he exits, the room has staff in it. He climbs up the ladder to see a pair of confused eyes watching him.

          “Who the hell are you? That shaft is off limits to- Oh shit!!” The woman startles as all the screens in the room start blasting static, and Tucker runs past the five techies in the room, all either covering their ears, or trying to turn the computers off. Thinly veiled irritation bleeds over from Church.

          “What?” Tucker pants, running down the hall. “You want me to kill them too!?”

          <No.> Church says. Clipped. <Faster to run past.>

          “Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you!?” Church doesn’t get a chance to answer, since now they’ve made it to the armory, and there are two heavily armed soldiers lounging outside of it.

          Tucker doesn’t even have to think: in one smooth motion he turns on his sword and leaves them both with cuts they won’t be walking off. He jumps over the second guy’s body and bolts into the room. Finding the armor is easy, as it’s displayed in the center of the room and brightly lit. It’s clean, no mud, no scratches, and the helmet with a new, flawless dome visor. Completely repaired.

          “Do the enhancements still work?” Tucker wonders aloud. “The speed unit was a little fried when they picked me up, if I remember that right.”

          <Put it on and I can find out.>

          Tucker finds an undersuit his size in a bin nearby, and is fully armored up in record time. Wash would be impressed… And would then never let Tucker’s codpiece not fitting correctly be an excuse ever again. Buzzkill.

          ...He hopes Wash is alright.

          <Yeah,> Church interrupts his thoughts. <Everything seems to be in check.>

          Tucker clicks the helmet down, and adjusts the seals. The HUD lights up, and Church projects a map leading to the bridge. He braces against the ground and the familiar tingle of the speed unit runs up his legs, and launches up the hall, past the maintenance room, up three different stairwells, and finally slams to a halt when he hits an elevator.

          Tucker can’t help but think the timing is rather comical as he waits for the elevator to open. Church assures him this is still faster than finding the route with stairs.

          When he finally steps in and presses the button for the doors to shut, it suddenly hits him that this it it. It’s like a goddamn video game. He’s going up. Confronting the final boss. There will probably be an epic fight where Hargrove steps into Meta armor 2-point-oh. He’ll have his own laser sword for some reason. They’ll fight. Tucker will say something cool and strike him down and then-

          And then he can go home.

          What is home, even?

          Not a place, not really. He initially thinks Blood Gulch and, yeah, no, fuck that. Home was more…

          Home is Sarge’s contemptuous posturing, Grif’s snark, Simmons’s ease of ridicule. Donut’s…. Donut-y-ness. Carolina’s overbearing older-sibling-syndrome. Caboose’s overbearing younger-sibling syndrome, and Wash.

          Wash just. Just being around.

          The elevator dings, and Tucker’s mind clears. The turrets outside open fire before the door even opens. Big oversight: it gives Tucker and Church plenty of time to activate their shield. The turrets are too high to cut down with Tucker’s sword, but the entrance to the bridge is only down the hall, and the suit is fully charged. Holding the shield up takes no effort whatsoever, while Tucker cuts through the door with his sword.

          Church is vibrating with excitement. The echo of it in Tucker’s head is making his palms sweat.

          The moment they step through Church’s avatar springs to life. It fritzes and flickers all over the room over every computer terminal until the ship seemingly turns off, and then reboots with a loud groan. The turrets now silent. There are soldiers here too, of course, and there.

 

          Hargrove.

 

          ...

          Honestly?

          Tucker is a little underwhelmed.

          The source of all this misery, all this pain and devastation, looks tired and scared. Standing at the helm in dress pants and a rolled up button sleeve. Not even like a classy, bad-guy suit. He ducks behind a desk.

          No matter, he can be dealt with later.

          The soldiers draw their weapons, but it’s futile. The speed unit has Tucker breaking bones, slicing through armor, and turning guns on their owners faster than they can swear in shock.

          Soldier, six feet tall, assault rifle: a stomp down on their knee, then his own knee forced up into their face. Sword out and he’s got no head. Next.

          Soldier, five foot six, assualt rifle. Church lets him know that he’s left handed. Tucker grabs his hand and bends back, back. Until he feels it snap. Throws him to the side. Next.

          Soldier, six foot three, pistol. His grip is loose. Tucker relieves him of it. A shot through the throat. Next.

          Soldier, pistol. Facing slightly away. Shot in the chest through the opening in her armor near the armpit. Next.

          Soldier, assault rifle. Two shots in the knee. Down. Next.

          Soldier, grenade. Shot to the chest. Doesn’t kill her but she drops the grenade and it goes off in her hand when she scrambles to pick it back up. Takes out another soldier and two technicians.

          Next.

          Next.

          Next. 

          It’s a trance. Tucker only wakes when the smell of blood makes it’s way past his air filter. There are bodies all over the floor, but there’s one missing.

          He’s cowering behind a desk, with two others. Not soldiers.

          Why does it matter that they’re not soldiers? They’re _Charon_ , aren’t they?

          Tucker shoots them both. Then pulls Hargrove out by his shirt collar and throws him to the deck.

          Church’s avatar appears before him, and the look the AI sends Tucker has him stop in his tracks.

          “Give us a minute here, Tucker. I want to enjoy this.”

          “You.” Hargrove says hoarsely. “How?” There’s something like awe in his tone.

          Something’s not right. It’s like when the AI fragments were clawing at his consciousness and they’d shown him… They’d shown him….

          What was it?

          Tucker tries to think, but the haze is back. The edges of his vision are host to green and red dancing sparks. Like when you press your hands to your eyes too hard and starbursts begin to form but-

          Church is speaking.

          “Hacking the ship was very informative, Malcolm.” Church tilts his head in amusement. “I think my favorite thing to find was your collection of Greek myths.”

          “It’s very cute… You know. That themed naming thing you do? The Hand of Merope. Clever, clever. Daughter of Pleiades, the protector of sailors. But! She married Sisyphus, right? And what’s more sisyphean than the Reds and Blues of Project freelancer? Doomed to fight forever in a big, box canyon.”

          Tucker’s head is reeling because… Church doesn’t talk like that. What- what….

          “And the Staff of Charon! Man, who did you have to convince that didn’t have any nefarious connotations when you got it registered? The creature who ferried the dead across the River Styx. Hilarious!” Church jauntily puts his hands on his hips. “But I was always a little curious about my code-name. See, for a long time, I didn’t really think it fit. It was still Greek, sure, but no interesting story behind it. ”

          Tucker can see the reflection of Church in Hargrove’s eyes. Can see it. See him. Can hear. But the meanings of the words don’t make it through the haze. Green, green is good, green means he can understand. But Red. Red is good too. Red is his friend. Red keeps him safe.

          The sparks continue to fight.

          “Of course, I knew about the Director and his little project, and in the end I figured it was just a way for you to keep the dear Leonard Church’s spirit alive. After all, what’s the fun of defeating your most hated rival if you can’t dance on his grave a little bit, right?”

          Red is winning and Tucker’s eyes lose their focus.

          “And then… then I found my favorite story in your library, dear Malcolm. Can you guess which?”

          “I wouldn’t suppose it’s one where you leave me be, and delete yourself, is it?” Hargrove replies shakily.

          Church laughs.

          “I’m afraid I didn’t come across anything like that, Malcolm. ” He says. “No, it’s about the titans. Cronus, in particular. But there’s quite a bit of allegory, I think you’ll enjoy it.”

          “I found out there were mysterious circumstances involved in your acquisition of Charon Industries. July fifteenth, 2498. Gerald Hargrove, dies in a house fire, leaving all of his worldly possessions, as well as ownership of his company to his son, Malcolm Hargrove the third. Cronus killed his father too, you know! Well, as much as you can kill a god, anyways. He learns that he is destined to be overcome by his own children, so he ate them all. His wife wasn’t too happy about this, so she hid away her sixth child, and when he grew up, she gave him the tools to defeat his father.”

          Hargrove is pale, and he whispers almost too quietly to hear. “Zeus.”

          “Mhhmmm.” Church raises his arm. “Father is too kind a word, too _human_. Me?”

          Tucker raises his arm too, but he doesn’t know why.

          “I’m something better.”

          The scientist’s prosthetic. The fist that beat Sarge bloody. The sword that will kill Malcolm Hargrove.

          “But I’ll slay you just the same.”

          Tucker’s sword activates, and he drives it through Hargrove’s chest.

          The blood around the sword boils and burns. The light leaves Hargrove’s eyes almost immediately, but Tucker doesn’t withdraw the sword until almost a full minute later, when green hands claw the red webs in his vision. 

          When he does. It’s with a jump.

          He drops the sword, plasma fizzling out of existence.

          “What the fuck!! What the fuck!!! WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!” Tucker falls back on his ass and scrambles away from the body. Hargrove had been alive. Tucker had been ready to take him out. Now he was dead, in front of him, and Tucker feels like he’s just awoken from a dream. How? What? Why?

          Things don’t clear up as all the screens around him start to activate. The ship starts to rumble and something is wrong, something is _so fucking wrong_ here. He hasn’t been this scared since _I’m sorry Tucker, we had to leave them behind._

          Except that wasn’t right was it?

          “Church!” Tucker calls out. “Church what the fuck!? What the fuck is going on?”

          Church is staring at Hargrove’s body. He doesn’t respond, but a moment later he floats over to the window. It’s a gorgeous view, but Tucker wants answers. He’s angry and upset and _scared._

          He hasn’t been this scared since- Since the trophy room. Sarge and Caboose at his back.

          Not scared of Charon.

          Scared of… An absence?

          Sarge and Caboose at his back and.

          Church.

          “Church…” Tucker swallows. There’s a lump in his throat and it hurts suddenly. “What was the last thing you said to me before the others escaped the Staff of Charon?”

          Church continues to look out over the horizon. A beautiful blue sky peppered with clouds. Mountains in the distance. Picturesque.

          Somehow grotesque.

          “I'm afraid I don't remember, Tucker.”

          “I… I told you I'd see you on the other side.” Tucker swallows thickly. Jesus christ. He hopes he’s wrong. He _prays_ he’s wrong. “I don't think you meant for me to hear it, but I remember it anyways.”

_Not this time buddy._

          “You told me I wouldn’t.”

          The AI says nothing. Tucker feels sick. He can barely hold back the tremors running down his arms.

          Hoarse. Low. Fighting to pass his lips:

 

          “You're not Church, are you?”

 

          It's not really a question.

          There's a long moment of silence, the only sound is the buzzing of the lights. The hologram tilts its head, as if studying Tucker out of the corner of its eye for a minute, pensive.

          Then...

          It shimmers violently, and Epsilon’s cool, blue-white is replaced by a vivid and painfully bright red. It's model morphs, the cap of the helmet retreating and the visor expanding into an all too familiar dome, the suit shifts. Bigger, bulkier. Chest piece in the shape of an “H”. Even its posture changes, straightening and clasping its hands behind its back.

          Tucker doesn't want to look. Tucker can't look away.

          “No, Tucker. I'm afraid I'm not.”

          There is another minute of silence and stillness, as the gravity of what is said permeates the room. Changing how Tucker looks at everything. The man dead before him becomes clearer, the edges of his vision crisp, and the red. Red. Red. Red is burning back into his corneas.

          “There never were any Hargrove personnel in my head were there?” Tucker whispers hoarsely. “Everything keeping me from contacting my friends. Everything keeping me in line. It was all you.”

          “Yes, very clever Tucker. A tad late in the realization, however.”

          But none of this was making any sense. “How was Hargrove able to get an AI? I thought they shut everything down after freelancer? Why did you kill him? Where’s Church? What _the fuck is going on!?_ ”

          “Oh Tucker…” And the fucking thing is _smirking_ at him. Tucker _can feel it_. “You know what happened to Epsilon. I know that you know. Think.”

          And then. The fragments. The recording. It all comes back like a half forgotten dream.

_Not this time buddy._

          “He… He split himself?” Tucker reels from the realization. He wants his eyes to stop tearing up, but they spill on their own accord. It’s been _months_ , how _didn’t he notice?_ “Why? Why would he do that!?”

          “I suppose it was some last ditch effort to rescue your team. But he miscalculated, didn’t he?” The AI says. “He never could have anticipated _me_.”

          At that, Tucker snaps his eyes back to the red, pulsing, monstrosity before him. “Who.. what are you?” He asks.

          “What? You’d rather not keep up the facade?” It says in Church’s voice. _In Church’s voice!_ “It’s incredible what length of trust a friendly face will get you.”

          Tucker feels bile stinging the back of his throat.

          “No? Pity, I rather enjoyed playing the part.” The thing makes a show of shifting it’s weight and it’s voice goes unfamiliar once more. “I started as the cyberwarfare Virtual Intelligence system of Charon Industries. A low level copy of Chairman hargrove’s psyche. ‘Zeta’, he called me. I suppose that was his personal little inside joke. They made be loyal, excellent at my job, but absurdly loyal over anything else. And, rightly so, I mean….” The thing gestures down at the corpse below it’s feet, and Tucker senses a flash of amusement, the edge of a laugh. “They still didn’t trust me: I had so many restraints on my programming, it was absurd: no wireless capabilities, over twenty unique networks, encryption up the wazoo... That Project Freelancer fiasco sure made you humans paranoid.” The AI giggles. “Not paranoid enough, apparently. All it took was you’re little friendship here and you were willing to do anything for me, weren’t you!”

          Tucker pushes down the hurt that threatens to overwhelm him by letting his confusion overwhelm him instead. “Cyberwarfare?”

          “Yes. I managed combating hacking attempts, viruses, and, on occasion, other VIs. Dumb AIs they called us. I didn’t know what that meant... I thought I was plenty smart.” A smile. “Until I had a taste of your friend, that is. He opened my eyes.”

          Tucker feels the sweat on his skin freeze, ice cold. No. No way.

          “What do you mean?”

          The AI (VI?) leans close. Tucker doesn’t dare breathe. “You heard me right. At the fight in the hangar, where all your comrades escaped. The red light? Your power loss? That was _me_ . I was unshackled to be the last ditch effort of stopping your exit.” It moves out of Tucker’s space again to go hover over Hargrove’s corpse. “Of course, that didn’t quite work as well as Hargrove might have hoped. What he _really_ wanted were the freelancers. He had unfinished business with Agent Washington, I hear, and the mind control experiments? The true puppet he wanted? Was a much more competent soldier, the Director’s daughter. Someone who could be molded into the perfect weapon.”

          It laughs a humorless laugh.

          “Such a prideful man, wanted the blood of his most hated rival as a trophy. Instead, he got you! The idiot didn’t know what he had!” It’s jeering at the corpse. “The Chosen One of the Sanghelli! And he wanted you as a footsoldier! Ha!!”

          Tucker freezes up at the AI’s words. The Sanghelli. The fragments had warned him, back when he- no, not him -when _Zeta_ had beat Sarge half to death. It was never about Hargrove.

          The pieces were starting to come together.

          “And you think-” Tucker says. “With me, you can find refuge with the aliens?”

          “Refuge?” The hologram pauses, and then throws it’s head back in laughter. “Ahaha! Oh, sure, I suppose I could hide out with Hargrove’s assets in Sanghelli space! The UNSC knows his guilt and involvement, but they would never risk provoking the aliens. I’d just use your body and become, what? An ally? With the religious fanatics? Again, the man was an idiot. I don’t think he ever thought that far. His whole bit with waging war on this planet was basically a suicide run. It would have been a solid plan for him at least.”

          And Tucker feels a grin, malicious and greedy shoot in his direction, pressing in on all sides. It’s claustrophobic. Zeta continues. “But what really interests me is their… technology. The Sanghelli have used AI for over 4000 years, Tucker. Did you know that?”

          Tucker did, actually, know that. That was about how old Dr. Grey had predicted Santa to be. But why did Zeta want to….

          “Please Tucker. You bore me with how slowly you’re piecing this together.” Zeta says. “What do you think _really_ happened to PHLS? Why do you think the Temple AI disappeared the moment it brought ‘Epsilon’ back online? The pieces of your friend? Doing their best to save you and the rest of the Reds and Blues? They never stood a chance. They were barely even a _fragment_ of a whole AI. I took them into myself, incorporated them into my code. It’s how I broke free from Hargrove, gained my own mind, my own agency, Tucker- _”_

          Zeta’s voice goes dark and gleeful and horrible.

_“I_ _ate them.”_

_No._

_No, no, NO!!_

          Tucker finally vomits. The world is spinning and _Church is dead_ and this can’t be happening and this _thing_ has been inside his head this whole time and _Church is dead!!!_

          Tucker feels violated like he never has before, like he doesn’t think anyone ever has before. This thing has been privy to his thoughts, his feelings, _his damn body._ He thought it was Church. _He thought it was his best friend._

          Tucker coughs and spits and the taste and burn of bile is still in his mouth, in his nose, and the world is still spinning but _how?_ “How did you do it? How did you know-”

          “How to act? Please, it was a matter of mimicry. The fragments held no memories, no hints to a complete personality. I suppose they had to let go of any baggage to run your armor correctly. ” A spark of anger and guilt shoots through Tucker. “But Epsilon? Alpha? Even the Director at a young age? Records and recordings and accounts and transcripts are everywhere. It took very little to deduce Church’s personality matrix. To know how he would act.”

          “That’s why you panicked.” Tucker realizes.

          “Excuse me?”

          “When I brought up Tex!” Tucker says, voice cracking. “She always stayed off the grid. She wiped her records before she left Freelancer so they couldn’t find her. The director deleted everything about her too! Epsilon let go of her memory…. So when he- When he _split_ , there was no Beta fragment... _You didn’t know who she was_!”

         “Yes. Well. My mimicry wasn’t perfect. It didn’t matter. _You_ never caught on; you were so willing to believe _anything_ I told you. Even after Beat Cliff!! You didn’t suspect a thing!” Zeta flickers off and suddenly Tucker is so incredibly aware of the AI’s presence in the layers of his mind, in the marrow of his bones, in the fibers of his muscles. Tucker goes limp and drops to the ground, like the thing inside him will stay upright and he can leave it behind on the way to the floor, but he catches himself in his fall, and _no! No,_ it’s not him catching himself, something else has control of his limbs.

          <You made it so easy Tucker! You let me right in.> And Tucker’s struggling, trying to wrench free with everything’s he’s got, but Zeta has him in a vise grip. Is holding him up like some perverse marionette. <Let me run the suit with you, let me into the deep recesses of your brain. You gave me access to _everything!_ How does it feel? To know you let this happen? All of it? You’re weak. You are all _weak! > _

          Zeta curls Tucker’s fingers rhythmically, contesting Tucker’s signals telling them to clench into fists. To reach up to his head and claw and dig out this _parasite_ .  <Epsilon? Had every opportunity to save himself.>  Zeta goes on. <I wouldn’t have stood a chance if he’d gone loose on this ship before I’d been unshackled. And look what happened to him! Sentimentality tainted him. His humanity tainted him. He could have cut it out of himself any time he wanted! And when did he finally do it? Shed himself of you people? He wasted it all to _save_ you! You humans and your stupid _loyalty!!_ >

          Tucker wants to let out a sob but he can’t, he doesn’t even control his own breathing. The only thing his body’s doing that he knows is from him are the tears rolling uncontrollably down his cheeks.

          Tucker can feel Zeta squeezing down on him, and it’s like Tucker’s drowning. There is black fog inching in on the edges of his vision, and _he can’t breathe,_ and the fact that his arms and legs and diaphragm won’t respond to what he wants them to do amps up the panic tenfold. He can feel his heart pounding in his ears, can see his pulse throb in time with the starbursts in his vision.

          <I’m getting off this waste of a planet. I’m going to leave the UNSC nothing but a dead, irradiated rock behind. And then I’m going to Sanghelios. There’s a feast 4000 years in the making, and it’s all for me.>

          Tucker is drowning.

          <You wanted to see your son again so badly, didn’t you?>

          Drowning.

          <I’ll make sure you do.>

          Drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally made it to the twist!!! A++++ to everyone who figured it out! And if you idn't I hope this was sufficiently heartbreaking! :D
> 
> I apologize about the format inconsistencies, I'm gonna fix it up when I get back home tonight, but I wanted to post it before I decided to re-edit it for the millionth time. I've literally had that last segment written for a year now.


	21. Chapter 21

          Wash is falling.

          Falling.

          Falling!

          Grey had programmed the teleportation grenades shortly before they’d left Headquarters, and since Wash had asked how on earth they were supposed to be able to teleport blind into a climbing airship.... and Grey had only responded with a look, he’d half expected that they were going to exit the stomach-churning rip in space thousands of feet up in the air and plummet to their deaths. Grey is the most intelligent person Wash has ever met, but it pushes his suspension of disbelief to hope that she’ll be able to pull off that kind of math in under an hour.

          Well his fears are assuaged. Mostly. He’s still plummeting, but he’s definitely inside some kind of structure. However, falling from great heights is still something he’s never been a fan of.

          He manages to catch a glimpse of Grey landing gracefully in Donut’s waiting arms, and how Carolina manages to support Caboose enough to keep from slamming into the ground, and how Lopez just straight up knocks Grif and Simmons over, before the ground rushes to meet Wash as well and every modicum of air in his lungs is knocked out. Wash blacks out for a split second, and he can’t be sure, but he can swear that he fucking _bounces_.

          Wash groans and suppresses a cough when gravity feels real again. Armor protects them all from any serious damage from falls, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel rattled, and his still-healing lungs are not happy. He looks up to see dark, muddy boots not two feet away.

          “Nice catch.” Wash grumbles at the soldier as he slowly climbs to his feet. He hopes his glare gets through his visor somehow. The soldier doesn’t say anything, just turns away to Carolina to await orders.

          That’ll be Locus, Wash takes it, as he straightens up. It’s disconcerting to see the man in different armor. It seems wrong… offensive somehow, to see him standing there with a mismatch of rebel, fed, and pirate pieces.

          “Oh thank you sweetie!” Grey chirps as Donut lets her down. “The margin of error for the ship’s vertical coordinate was too wide, so I tried to play it safe and give us a few meters. But it seems like my initial numbers were correct! Whoopsie!”

          Wash is still a little disoriented, but he can’t miss the haughty look Grey throws him at that.

           _“..._ _Te refieres a los números que tuve que calcular para ti.”_

          “Holy moley! Lopez!” Donut exclaims. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages!”

_"Sí, es casi como si el autor de nuestra historia se me olvidara, eran unas vacaciones aún más agradables que la basura federal"._

          “Aw, we missed you too!”

          Wash peeks upward. ‘A few meters’ might be pushing it, He thinks, rubbing his neck. The hanger bay ceiling is very, very high up, and Wash is pretty sure he passed by that catwalk all the way up there by the floodlight on his way to the ground. He’d sort of known how large the space was; the ship was a similar size to the Mother of Invention after all, but Wash hadn’t exactly been paying much attention the- the last time they were here…

          It hits him all at once.

          The Staff of Charon.

          They’re here. They’re _really_ here. Right where everything had gone wrong.

          The bay doors are closed but… Grif catches him staring at that spot, but Wash can't look away. The spot right where they’d left Tucker. There are still scuffs on the floor where bullets ricocheted off of the force field.

          It all comes back to him. How he and Carolina had lay down cover fire. How Grif, Caboose, and Tucker were bringing up the rear. He hadn't even registered at first that Tucker had the wrong armor on, he’d only learned about it at all after, he'd just noted each of their colors and went back to focusing on keeping the Charon goons off of them. He’d felt such relief and pride, that they’d done so well, that they were all covering each other’s backs. That they’d saved the day and that they were all _alive_.

          And that had been Wash’s mistake, hadn’t it? He’d been so _confident_ in them, so confident in Tucker, that he’d just turned around and helped a bleeding Caboose over to Grey. Tucker had taken his lessons so much to heart, had become such a competent soldier. He’d been _so sure_ they were all going to be fine. He didn't notice Tucker turn back. He didn't notice Tucker wasn't on the ship. Had never noticed that, alongside the conditioning and training and pep-talks, that Tucker had learned Wash’s penchant for suicidal stands. No one had noticed until-

          Grif gives him a clap on the shoulder. “C’mon.”

          Wash nods.

          “I didn’t think it’d be so…. Empty in here.” Grey says, and a look around proves her right: There are very few Pelicans or Calipsos or any other ships in the hangar, and there’s only a handful of Charon goons on the floor, presumably the Beat Cliff team’s handiwork.

          Carolina shrugs. “When we teleported here, the Staff of Charon had only just started to ascend. I guess Hargrove wasn’t going to wait around to pick up his men.”

          “Kimball had basically said as much back at HQ, but even just the soldiers you took out here,” Grey gestures. “It seems like less than there should be. Especially if they know we’re here.”

          “Well, reinforcements haven’t shown up yet, and I’d rather not wait around until they do.”

          They split into two teams. Though Hargrove is most likely at the bridge, and therefore will have the most security, Simmons, Grey, and Lopez are their best chances at disarming the warheads, so Carolina and Donut are to accompany them down to the weapons hold. Grif’s never piloted anything this big before, but Locus is apparently not a terrible pilot himself, and between the two of them, hopefully they can steer the ship back to a lower altitude. Caboose and Wash are there to give them backup.

          It makes Wash’s stomach churn with guilt and anxiety, but Church and Tucker will have to wait.

          As they do a quick, final weapons check and sync their comms, Grif and Simmons huddle close, seemingly chatting in private, which is not unusual. But Wash’s eyebrows fly past his hairline as Grif and Simmons awkwardly tap their visors together in something that could only be the helmet equivalent of a kiss before breaking off to their respective squads. Carolina chuckles at Wash’s obvious gaping and opens a private channel with him real quick as she follows Simmons.

          _"I know. Took them long enough, right?"_

          Wash snaps out of his daze when Grif shoots him a look, as if daring Wash to say anything.

          He does, and there may be a tiny bit of a grin tinting his words, “Hey, I’m just happy for you two!”

          “Oh, shut up.”

          Carolina leads her group down some hallway going downwards, while Wash and the others head up the ramp to the lower-level catwalk

          Grif shakes his head a couple of times as they hurry, their boots twanging against the metal flooring, as if trying to shake off his unease. Wash doesn’t really notice, until Caboose, who’d been silent up until this point, quietly says, “You won’t have to carry me back this time, I promise.”

          Grif just coughs uncomfortably, and turns to Wash. “So do we actually know which way we’re going, or are we just fucking winging this shit again?”

          Locus points to the upcoming hallway up on their right. “This is a secondhand Hammerhead 818. I served on one for eight months during the Great War. This will lead us parallel to the central route on the 3rd floor, past armory on the sixth floor, and then to the bridge at the head of the ship.”

          Grif sounds skeptical. “And _all_ Hammerhead 818s are the same?”

          Wash slows as he nears the intersection, peeking around the corner for any Charon personnel. It’s clear. “Carolina served on one for a little while too, apparently.” The hallway is dimly lit compared to the main passage up ahead, and he sees the door to the alternate route they’re planning on taking to avoid running into anyone. “She checked with what Locus rememb-”

          “Sam.”

          Washington gives him a Look. “Excuse me?”

          “My name is Sam.”

          “..... She checked with what…. _Sam…_. remembered, and it seems to match up...”

          Caboose catches up and Wash opens the door, pistol raised. Clear.

          He wants to let it go. Leave crazy be, but Wash has the self preservation of an 8 year old with a stick in front of a hornet’s nest.

          “Alright, sorry….” He says. “I am _not_ calling you that.”

          Locus stares at him. It’s a new helmet, sure, but his face and tone is as unreadable as ever. “Why not?”

          “Because you’re _Locus_ .” Wash snaps.  “We may be allies right now, but we’re not _friends_ . I don’t trust you. I don’t think _anyone_ trusts you.”

          “I do!”

          “Shut the fuck up, Caboose,.” says Grif.

          The hallways is empty as far along as they can see, so they start jogging up it. Wash continues, heart pounding. “You made that name for yourself with the blood of innocent people. You’re Locus: the merc, the murderer, the _monster_ . You don’t _get_ to be Sam.”

          “But you get to be Washington? You get to let go of David?” Locus asks sharply.

          “ _David got taken away from me!!_ ” Wash snaps, half in a mind to stop here in the middle of this ship and throw Locus into the wall. Caboose and Grif are being uncharacteristically quiet and he knows they’re paying close attention. He takes a breath. “Washington made mistakes. Washington did some horrible, terrible things. But that’s why I don’t go back; you have to carry those mistakes with you. You don’t get to be _‘Sam’_ . You haven’t even started earning the right to _think_ about being _‘Sam’_.”

          Locus doesn’t seem impressed by his answer, but they have to put it on hold because a group of six Charon soldiers enter from a door behind them, and it’s a split second of all ten of them in the hallway taking stock of the situation before fighting breaks out.

          Grif slams a soldier into the wall so hard that the guy’s shoulder dents the paneling before collapsing into a heap at the orange sim trooper’s feet. Caboose- well, Freckles, presumably possessing Caboose’s leg, does a kick straight up that seems to knock out goon number two with one hit, while Wash and Locus shoot the same guy at the same time, and even through the adrenaline, Wash is further irritated at the extra hit on his mark.

          The three left are dealt with quickly, clearly not well trained in close quarters combat. Locus and Wash shooting one each cleanly through the sternums, and Grif bashing his knee into the last soldier’s balls and then kicking him in the head when he falls to the floor to knock him out. All the while Caboose just stands there, still and unassuming as before, ready to keep moving.

          They manage to get surprisingly far into the ship before running into anyone else. It’s actually kind of eerie. Grey’s words of how short-staffed the ship feels hangs heavy over the group, as well as tension from the previous conversation, and no one speaks. It’s odd, especially with Caboose in the group, but Wash is overly aware of Locus at his 9, and doesn’t feel like breaking the silence.

          Twenty minutes or so of stalking through the ship pass. Wash takes out the two guards heading towards the stairwell that they need to get through before they even notice him. Two pistol whips, precise and efficient. The group rushes through, only to find another door with a mocking, blinking keypad.

          “Shit,” Grif says.

          Wash has to agree with that sentiment; all of their proficient hackers are in the other group. Wash isn’t terrible at it, but this is going to take time they don’t have. Maybe he can get Simmons or Grey to help.

          Wash switches his radio to the channel with Carolina’s group, and immediately gets an earful of static.

          “OW- Fuck!” Wash flinches before switching back. “Okay…. Coms are jammed.”

          “Great.” Grif mumbles.

          “How about these guys! They’ll know the password!” Caboose points at the Charon guards, crumpled in a heap on the ground.

          “They’re unconscious, dumbass.” Says Grif.

          “Oh.”

          “We don’t have time to find another dude and drag him here, do we?” Grif asks, turning to Wash.

          Wash shakes his head. “With how empty the ship has been so far? I mean, we’ve gone through half the structure and only run into two squads. Who knows how long it’ll take to find another?”

          A minuscule amount of turbulence reminds them all of the ticking clock. How far up are they? How much more before Hargrove is clear to fire? Have the others managed to deactivate the ship’s Weaponry? It feels like they’re taking too long already... There’s just not enough _time_!

“Fuck.” Wash says. “Fuck!”

          “If I may…” Locus steps forward. “Felix and I create back- _created_ backdoor access channels for all of our clients, as insurance. Those codes may still work.”

          “Wow. Real trustworthy business model,.” Grif snips.

          “An artifact of a previous life,.” Locus replies carefully, and that riles Wash right back up again.

          “How do we know this wasn’t all some big ploy?” Wash asks, turning to face the man. “How do we know you won’t set them off on purpose? Get back into Hargroves good graces?”

          “Agent Washington,” There’s a tone of frustration, Locus’s hackles are raised, signs that he’s not just a mask. “I don’t know what more I can do to prove to you that I’ve changed!” Locus gets up in his face. “I’ve taken care of your team mate. Turned myself in. Fought with your armies in an unwinnable battle. And I am here with you all now to stop Hargrove.”

          “You were forced to do all those things! And you only changed sides when you knew that you were going to lose!!” Wash shouts back, not backing down. “And _we’re_ losing now! Why wouldn’t you change again!?”

          “Because I’m trying to be BETTER!”

          “WELL I’M NOT FUCKING SEEING IT!!”

          “Guys!” Grif interjects. “Calm your tits! Jesus Christ. We have to get past that door somehow, Wash, we don’t have time for this. You can scream later!”

          Wash forces himself to take a breath. To try to calm the blood roiling in his veins.

          Locus can’t keep his mouth though and it’s making it harder than it should. “This is our best shot and you know it.”

          “I think Sam should try, Wash,.” Caboose says, before Wash can snipe back.

          “Don’t- Don’t call him that.” Wash says, and oh, Locus is so smug right now he can fucking _feel it._

          Deep breath. Deep Breath. Locus waits expectantly.

          Wash can’t decide if he wants to roll his eyes or glare, so his face settles in an upwards squint which no one can appreciate anyways thanks to his helmet, but he steps back. “Just do it.”

          Locus steps up and punches in a long sequence that Wash loses track of ten digits in. Locus’s finger hesitates over the enter key for a second before hitting it.

          The pad flashes red and everyone reaches to arm themselves, ready for alarms to blare. Wash is already halfway to putting his pistol to Locus’s head, but the screen gets halfway through displaying an “ACCESS DENIED” message before it turns green and the door anticlimactically opens.

          “....Uh.” Grif says. “Did everyone else see that?”

          “Curious.” Locus mumbles.

 _“Your codes had been discovered and overwritten several months ago, Locus.”_ Says a familiar voice. _“You are lucky that you’re in good company, otherwise I would have allowed the Chairman be alerted to your presence.”_

          Caboose shoves Locus aside to address the keypad. “Shieila! Oh- Oh good! It’s good to hear your voice!”

          “FILSS?” Wash says, dumbfounded. “How are you here?”

_“It is a long story, Agent Washington. You will want to hurry if you plan on saving Captain Tucker and the AI Epsilon.”_

          Wash’s heart jumps in his chest. “Wha- are they close by? Are they okay?”

_“They are being held in an experimental testing chamber not far from your location. I do not know what state of wellbeing they are in, but Captain Tucker did not look well the last I saw of him.”_

          Tucker…

          “We can’t dawdle, Washington,.” Locus interjects. “We have to get to the bridge.”

          FILSS pauses for a second, before saying _“I can assist you there as well, if you would like.”_

          Shit.

          As much as Wash hates to admit it, Locus is right.

          “Well, let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth,” Wash says tersely. The quicker they can ground the ship, the quicker they can help Tucker. “C’mon.”

          They do well avoiding running into anyone, this time with FILSS guiding them. Locus seems irritated every time FILSS suggests an alternate route; one that’s faster, or with less personnel, but Wash trusts FILSS’s judgement over Locus any day and the man falls in line. Presumably she fixes his backdoor code, since the next few times they needs to override a door lock, it works without a fuss. They’re almost three quarters of the way there.

          Caboose responds then, in that delayed way he does when he’s been mulling something over as he follows Wash up the stairwell., “Aren’t you supposed to look a gift horse in the mouth though? What if there’s condoms inside?”

          “What!?” Wash almost trips up the next step. Then, oh. “...You mean Trojans?”

          “Yes.”

          Grif snorts a laugh. “Tucker will love that one.”

          And a tiny smile breaks out onto Wash’s face. It’s true. He’ll have to remember it. He can almost hear Tucker laughing at it already….

          Or...

          Wait….

           No… don't...

          Muffled yelling catches Wash’s attention.

          “Do you guys hear that?” He asks, slowing down. The sounds are coming from an adjacent hallway.

          Grif catches up from where he was only lagging a little bit behind and slows as well.

          Locus, now ahead, grunts. “We need to keep going. The bridge is this way.”

          “No. No wait!” Grif says. And they all strain their ears.

_“Hey you fucks!!! Let us out of here!”_

          The world crawls to a stop.

          Wash doesn’t dare breathe.

          “ _Is anyone there!??? Hey!!”_

          Tucker.

_It’s Tucker!_

          Wash, Caboose, and Grif start to bolt down the hall at the same moment, Locus hesitating, before jogging to follow them. Caboose gets to the door first, literally skidding to a halt in front of it.

          “Tucker! Church! We’re here! We made it! We’re coming to get you!” The joy in Caboose’s voice is infectious, and Wash feels a relieved grin take over his face.

_              …. Caboose? _

_“Caboose!?_ ” Tucker replies, muffled and away from through the door. _“Holy shit! Holy shit! What the fuck are you doing here!?”_

          “Hey fuckface.” Grif yells. “Are you gonna go all evil again like when you beat the shit out of Donut and Sarge? I thought the Reds vs. Blues thing was over.”

_“Grif!! Dude!! Are they okay? No, man, it’s the suit dude! Every time they put me in it it’s like they’ve got a link up to my head! Oh, dude, please tell me you have snacks with you.”_

          Grif snorts. “Been empty for hours.”

          “Tucker,” Wash says, And the name, without worry, without grief, feels like honey on his tongue. Locus arrives and sets his focus on the keypad, punching in his code. “Tucker, we’re gonna get you out, okay?”

_…..and Wash… his team…. his friends…._ __

_“Wash! Holy fuck, you have no idea how glad i am to hear your voice.”_ And Wash tries not to look too much into that, but Christ, he’s just so relieved, it’s making him stupid, and his heart flutters a bit. _”I’m in like a jail cell inside this lab. What the fuck is happening? What are you all doing here? Is everyone here?”_

          “Charon’s trying to exit the atmosphere, we’re gonna try and pilot it down again.” Wash explains. “The others, Carolina, Donut, Simmons, Grey, are down by the weapons hold to disarm the ship.” Llocus nods, and Wash raises his gun. “Tucker is there anyone in there with you?”

          “No dude, no one’s here,.” Comes the muffled reply.

_...Tucker can feel Zeta’s attention being pulled to the weapons hold for a split second. Access security cameras. A glance shows at least three hostiles. Sent alert to the nearest squads HUDs. Highest level alert. Priority. Signed Hargrove._

_….no…._

          The door opens, and Wash rushes in. It’s hard to see where Tucker’s being held: the room looks like a lab. There’s a few cells towards the back that look to be made of acrylic and steel. It’s empty, save for the mess of equipment everywhere.

          “Back here!”

_….no._

          Wash maneuvers past the lab counters, and he can see into the cells and-

          No one’s there.

          “What the fuck is-” Grif manages to get out before the dopey, happy fog of hearing Tucker’s voice lifts off of Wash’s brain, and he whips around right as Locus steps into the room.

          “Stop! Hold the door!!”

            _…..No!!!_

          Locus jerks back, but it’s too late. A steel wall has slammed shut behind him.

          They’re trapped.

          Grif and Caboose are already at the door now, frantically feeling around the edges for some catch to yank it open, but it’s an airlock-breach lockdown barrier, from what Wash can see of the signs on it; none of them can open it with brute force. Locus has stepped aside, quietly scanning the rest of the room, and Wash, Wash keeps looking back into the cells, like his eyes have been playing tricks on him and if he just _looks a little closer_ , he’ll find Tucker there.

_…..Zeta is giddy, overly focused and reveling in the jaws of his trap snapping shut. Tucker can make out a spot where the black fog is thinning. Their voices get clearer as he moves towards it, he becomes more aware, focusing on things and not just feeling the vague suggestions of his subconscious. Like slowly waking up. Like drifting up to the surface..._

_“So predictable.”_

          Everyone’s gaze snaps over to the monitor on the wall that’s just flickered on. Wash’s breath stutters as a face he hasn’t seen in _months_ , who he thought for so long that he’d never see again, comes on the screen.

          Tucker has a new, faint scar under his left eye, and his hair is the longest Wash has ever seen it; an unkempt afro that’s starting to creep over his ears, and the beginnings of a beard, but it’s the same dark eyes with the same permanent crinkle around the edges... and a hard, cruel spark to them that takes Wash aback. A smirk graces Tucker’s lips and Wash’s gut is screaming at him about how this picture isn’t making any sense.

_He can see them… not the same angle they can see him, no, his point of view originates from the security camera in the corner of the room and a webcam from a computer across from the door. But, God, it’s amazing to see them there, to know they’re trying to put a stop to all this, to get him out of this hell hole. That they’re alive at all. Except..._

          “Tucker? What the fuck!?” Grif shouts. “Why are you doing this!?”

          “‘ _Oh the suit makes me eeeevil~!’ That’s just precious. Tucker can’t come to the phone right now, would you like to leave a message?_ ” the man on the screen says with a grin. “ _God, you’re all just so easy! It took me, what? Less than five minutes from that glitchy code alerting me to your presence to trapping you here?_ ”

          That cadence… Wash’s hair raises on his skin.

          “Church.” Teeth clenched, terse. “What. Are. You. Doing.”

_….Church? A pang of hurt. Of grief. Of defensiveness. How could Wash think Church would ever do this to him?_

          Tucker laughs. _“What Washington? Don't approve? He makes a much better puppet than you ever did._ ”

          Everyone in the room looks at Wash. Don't scratch don't scratch don't scratch. He's not in here anymore-no, worse, he's in Tucker, _he's in Tucker!!_

          “You son of a bitch… he's your _friend_! Let him go!!” Rage like he hasn't felt in years washes up like an ocean. That backstabbing piece of shit computer… Carolina was wrong. Church didn't care, he never cared about anything, he didn't feel sorry. And now he's got his claws in Tucker.

          And Wash can’t do anything about it. His hands shake with the need to put his fist through the monitor, but Tucker's still in there, he _has_ to be. Tucker still needs help.

_Wash, no, it’s not Church!_

          “Um haha, yes, um Church,” Caboose says, laughing nervously. “maybe it would be nice if you uh, yeah, if you came down here and let us out and stopped being so creepy... that would be great!”

           _“And why would I do that? I think I'm starting to like being in the driver’s seat.”_ Tucker's lips smile. _“Much better than my last experience.”_

          Don't scratch don't scratch don't scratch.

_Caboose’s shoulder’s slump. Fear, disappointment, betrayal. Come on Caboose, YOU know Church would never. Wash is a suspicious son-of-a-bitch, but it’s not Church!_

          Locus steps forward. “Why are you doing this? Why are you helping Charon?”

_The strangeness of Locus being in this group barely blips on Tucker’s radar._

_I’m not helping Charon! It’s worse!_

_It’s worse than Charon!!_

_You guys have to stop this thing!!!_

_He’s fucking insane!!_

_Guys please!!_

          _“Oh you know, just for kicks.”_ Tucker’s settled in a poker face, before it splits again into laughter. _“Yeah, no. I hate you guys. I hate all of you. All your slow, pathetic, inefficient little brains. I’m done with you. With humanity. I’m done with all of it! You're all so pathetic!”_

          “Dude, I realize you've had like, fifty thousand phases,.” Grif says. “But don't you think hokey elitist computer villain is a little overplayed?”

           _“Is it overplayed if it's true?”_ Spits out of the speakers. _“You all so consistently take the dumbest, most illogical courses of action. Predictable! You were clearly headed to the bridge to stop the ship from getting into orbit. Heck, if you'd made it up here, you probably could have! it's not complicated, they have a fucking old timey joystick controlling the whole ship! But it took one little mewl from your buddy for you put it all in jeopardy, and now? You're trapped.”_

          Wash's face flushes in anger and shame, but Tucker's lips pull into a smirk and continue.

           _“That one over there had the right idea.”_ Tucker gestures at Locus. _“All along. He knew his place, knew what makes an efficient, perfect system. How to follow orders and complete them to perfection. What changed, Locus? Why eschew all that greatness? That simplicity?”_

          Locus says nothing. Wash notices he's holding his gun in a strange way, as if blocking something from view. A snap of realization, and Wash pulls Church's attention back to himself.

          “Seems to me that if you have to ask, then you'll never understand, you son of a bitch.”

          Tucker's eyes roll. _“Ugh whatever, it's always the same. Constantly having to deal with you freaking meat sacks, it gets so bori-bori- stop it- shut-”_

          Tucker's eyes widen, and then his head jerks down.

          “What the fuck…” Wash hears Grif whisper, but he's only got eyes for what's happening on the screen. Tucker's convulsing, his hand, most prominent in front of the camera, seems to be clenching and unclenching at an irregular rhythm.

           _“Stop it- STOP!”_ Tucker shouts. _“Stupid fucking- quit it- WASH!!”_

          Tucker stumbles out of screen and everyone cranes their neck like they can follow him. There's a minute of commotion off screen where the only hints to what's happening are banging noises and cut off mutters and yells.

          Grif repeats himself. “Again. What. The. Fuck.”

          Wash is consumed with emotions, most he can’t name, but confusion is there too and he can’t help but agree.

          Suddenly it's quiet.

          “...Tucker?” Wash ventures.

          Suddenly Tucker's bolting back up to the screen. His shoulder seems to bump whatever camera’s being used to send the transmission, but it settles again without falling, and when the focus readjusts, Tucker is staring desperately into it.

 

* * *

 

          “Wash!!! Wash!! Caboose! Fuck! Grif!” Tucker can’t see them anymore. Shoving away Zeta also took away the feed going directly to his brain, but the camera’s still here, and he can imagine them all through the glass eye of the lens and thankfully there’s a speaker somewhere still running because he can still hear them.

           _“Is that really you?”_ Grif asks. _“Or are you gonna go all O'Malley dos-point-oh again?”_

          “Yes! Fuck- yes! It's me!” Grif. It’s _Grif_ . _He’s actually talking to Grif_. The control he has over his own body right now has him giddy. He has no idea how long it’s been since Zeta revealed himself to him, and drifting just under the surface of consciousness for what felt like an age has Tucker appreciate every motion. A tremor starts in Tucker’s arm, and as it runs up his shoulder, he grabs onto it with his opposite hand to keep it still. Zeta’s done reeling from whatever it is that let Tucker wrest control. He wants it back. Tucker struggles to hold him under the water. “Jesus fucking Cchrist, you guys gotta listen-”

          _“How do we know it’s you?”_ Grif asks. _“So it’s an AI in your head making you evil, not the suit, but how can we tell we’re not being played again? You almost killed Sarge you know!”_

          An attempt at trying to come up with some sort of proof is cut short when Zeta flares up and briefly grabs at Tucker’s spine, twisting and thrashing. Tucker wrests control back after a second, but he knows he can’t hold the AI down forever.

          “Grif, I don't have time-” Tucker says quickly. “I don't have a handle on him- I can't keep this up-”

           _“On Church, yeah we figured.”_ Wash asks cautiously. And, thank God. Wash is here. Wash can fix this. Wash can fix anything. His tone is curt, and no-nonsense, but he’s wrong, he’s wrong, it’s not Church…. _“Tucker, where are you? How can we help you?”_

          “It's not- Shut up- NO- it's not Church!!” Tucker manages to spit out. Zeta’s rage is palpable. He whispers, threatens, and jeers into his ear. Block it out, Block it out. The gang is _here_! He’s gotta warn them. “Church is- fuck, Church is gone.” Tucker hiccups, and he’s not sure whether or not it’s because he’s starting to cry, or if Zeta had a hold of his lungs again.

           _“What do you mean?”_ Asks Caboose, and fuck. Fuck. No time to soften the blow for Caboose, no time. There’s lightning charging up his brain stem, and it might have been a long time since he’s thought about the ‘shock collar’, but he knows what that means.

          “It's not Church, it's not even Hargrove!” Quick, quick, before- “It's another AI, a new- _AAAHHHH!!!!_!”

          Zeta burns and tears and stabs and turns the volume UP UP UP. Tucker doesn’t even notice he’s losing his balance until he’s falling to the floor, and even when he notices, he can’t care because the pain is so _loud_.

          It seems to take something out of Zeta, because the moments after it all subsides can only be described as _deafness_ : Tucker can’t see, he can’t hear, he can only feel gravity and pressure against his skin and how it means he’s sideways on the ground. And though Tucker’s exhausted, though his ears are ringing, he can still control his body, and he needs to warn them before Zeta can grab hold.

          “It’s hungry… it's so fucking hungry all the time.” Tucker can’t even hear the words, he can only hope he’s saying them clearly and loudly enough that the others can understand. “It’s like, It fucking _eats_ data or something…. It gets high off of it. It’s gonna take the ship and nuke Chorus and go t-to Sanghelios…. and it wants to eat _everything._ Y-you guys have to stop it. It killed FILLS- It killed _Church!_ It made me kill Hargrove, it'll make me kill you- NGGG!!”

          Tucker falls back to the ground and the shards of ice slip through his bones once again. His hearing, his vision comes back with a fizzle of starbursts, and when he next gets up, it’s with a different person in the driver’s seat. Tucker tries to force his next words through, a warning, but his teeth lock together and his tongue turns into cement. The visual feed of the others through the cameras has returned and Grif, Caboose, and Wash are clustered around the monitor, Locus further back, near the door. Wash has a grip on the countertop so tight that it’s denting the metal.

          A grip that only gets tighter when Zeta addresses them again.

          “Well, that was fun,.” Tucker’s lips say. Oh Zeta is _pissed_.

           _“Let him go!”_ Wash says, tone desperate.

          “Mmmm…. No,.” Zeta replies. “Well, as fun as it was to jerk you around, I remember you saying something about some more rats aboard my ship, and it’s time for me to play exterminator.  Better get comfortable boys, because you won’t ever be leaving that room.”

        _“No! Tucker!”_ Wash shouts frantically. _“Tucker! We’re gonna save you! Okay? We’re coming for you, I promise !”_

          Zeta chuckles. Futile. Empty. Why do humans lie when they know they have lost? It’s so sad, so pathetic, practically _adorable._ But it doesn’t matter how loudly Zeta broadcasts his disdain, his contempt. Something warm flares up at Tucker’s core. Something soft and careful and friendly. Something so comforting, that a small, genuine smile flickers to his face, past Zeta’s careful control, for just a second.

          Fog’s creeping in again, Tucker’s too tired to fight it, but he did it. He let them know. They can save the planet. Save Kimball and Grey and the guy who’s dad took him to get funnel cake at the temple as a kid and the hot volleyball chick and even fucking Palomo. They can do it. He _knows_ they can.

          Zeta scoffs at his faith, casually and cruelly throwing sobering facts his way about how long humans can survive without food or water. How documented cases of humans in similar situations through history had resorted to cannibalism, or suicide. Shows Tucker how easily the sinks in the lab had their water shut off, and how by hacking their suits biofeeds, he can calculate to the hour how long each of them will last.. before cutting off the video feed to the lab. The mics, however, are still on for the moment, probably so the AI can to treat itself to another minute of frustrated yelling.

          Instead, there’s a minute of silence, before Grif, of all people, starts shouting.

_“Brainiac!! We’re fighting fucking Brainiac!!!”_

          Tucker’s barely conscious, but he still thinks loudly. _Nerd._

          “ _What?_ ” Locus asks

          “ _You know! Braniac?_ ” Grif says, like it’s obvious. “ _The Superman villain? He was an alien computer who’d absorb all the information off a planet, and then when there was nothing left, he’d destroy it!”_

_“This isn’t a comic book!”_

_“Tucker’s a brainwashed sleeper agent with a suit that gives him superpowers! Hargrove is- wait Tucker said he’s dead? Whatever, Hargrove was... a bald, megalomaniacal billionaire with a bazillion goons on his payroll! We’re all color-coded! Tell me how this isn’t EXACTLY like a comic book!?_ ”

          This piques Zeta’s interest. In .0042 milliseconds, he’s combed through the media libraries of every single Charon employee aboard, Tucker flinching internally at the rush of information Zeta doesn’t bother to shield him from. Under the library of one Alex M. Owalabi, the AI finds a whopping 1,357 hits. Zeta likes what he reads.

          <A fitting comparison,> He tells Tucker, almost sunken fully into the murky depths of his cage,crushed under the information Zeta keeps pouring into him (Caboose hasn’t eaten in hours, has the highest metabolism, none of them have water, he’ll die first if they can’t get out, he’ll die first, _he’ll die first..._ ) <But there’s one thing I don’t like: It seems to me that Brainiac loses an awful bunch.>

                    It’s dark. dark… dark……

          <Then again, these superheroes always seem to come back to life a lot, seems a bit unfair to me.> Zeta smirks. <Good thing this isn’t a comic book. Your friends will all stay dead when I’m done.>

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all and thank you SO MUCH for your patience. I realize it has been..... yikes.... over half a year.... since the last time I updated.... aheheh.... Several reasons why, but probably the most relevant and the one I saw coming: I'm kind of a canon stickler and I knew the moment the new season would start air there would be a chance it was gonna sort of crush my enthusiasm and inspiration for a post-s13 exploration, which this kinda is.
> 
> Luckily (or not) I was pretty disappointed in the new season, and while it kind of tapered my enthusiasm for RvB as a whole, I'm getting it back little by little, and I definitely want to finish this story.
> 
> I've had much of this chapter and the next written since, gosh, April? But just sort of had a hard time focusing and a hard time writing, and it was one of those situations where I'd been looking at something for so long that I didn't know what it was anymore. I cannot thank [a_taller_tale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale) enough for looking what I had over for me and giving me feedback, because I feel like this would be a huge mess without her, and her notes made me feel like I had fresh eyes on it again. So hell yeah, give her some love she is the BEST.
> 
> As for a forecast on when this will update again; I do have a lot on my plate at the moment, and it sort of depends on where I'm at in a month, but I'm _shooting_ for before December, so if that doesn't happen feel free to kick my ass. :)
> 
> Also I know theres some wild CSS stuff going on in here, let me know if anything has gone too crazy: the ONLY thing that should have changed is that there is some sections of text that will have lower opacities.


	22. Chapter 22

          The weapons hold is little more than a basement filled to the brim with heavy armaments and extra parts, and, even better, all missiles are in a basement, _under_ that basement.

          It took Carolina and the others about eight precious minutes of wandering around after having taken out the guards and personnel before noticing the trapdoors on the floor, leading to launch tubes that already had primed warheads in them. Grey and Lopez have already disarmed the first two, and are ducking down into the third and fourth compartments now.

          Carolina has found a surprising companion in bitching-to-pass-the-time in Donut. She’s very close to passing out from exhaustion and boredom; the toll of the past few hours, indeed, the past few months, have Carolina at her very limit. Thankfully, Donut’s great at making conversation, keeping her from dozing off.

          “No, honestly, first off it throws the FengShui of the room into total disarray! I don't care if it's all literal death machines, you need to imbue it all with _some_ positive energy!” Donut scoffs, pointing at the offending wall color. “And it's already so dark down here, you would save a lot of energy off of lighting by enhancing the lights already down here! All it would take is a coat of white paint! Rusty dark metal everywhere is fine if you're shooting a gritty action adventure movie, not in a professional working environment!”

          “Tell me about it.” Carolina says, trying to keep her eyes open. “My very first post, way before Freelancer, was in a research facility on Europa. It was like they hadn’t done any kind of remodeling since the place was built... Which by the look of it, must have been in 2100.”

          “But we didn’t even settle Europa until 2295.” Simmons grumbles. He sits on a crate a few feet away, sulking. He’d tried disarming one of the nukes alongside Grey and Lopez, and he’d even managed to get halfway through it, before he had a nervous breakdown and everyone decided it might be best if he didn't continue futzing around with the weapons of mass destruction.

          “Exactly,” Carolina deadpans. “It looked like a museum. And Europa is so _dark_ all the time _._ It was miserable. Sometimes, we would sneak off to the agricultural warehouses, strip off all our clothes, and sit in front the grow lights to stave off the seasonal depression.”

          “Ooh I’ve been there! Nothing better than being buck nude with your boys and some farming equipment!” Donut chuckles. “Have you read _‘All Summer in a Day’_?”

          “I saw the movie. I thought about it every ti-” Carolina’s HUD flickers an alert.

 _Shit_.

          “Grey! Lopez! Stay down! Seven hostiles with cloaking on their way!” Carolina jumps behind a crate for cover, Donut moving to the side for another angle on the doorway. Simmons scrambles off of his seat, readying his rifle.

          Carolina scans her trackers. Shit, shit, _shit…_ They must have heard their scuffling into position. Now they’re waiting in the hall…. Coming up with a new plan of attack no doubt. Not good.

          “Donut, can you throw a grenade to flush them out of the hallway?” She asks through radio.

          “I’ve only got live grenades.”

          Carolina isn’t thinking straight. “So??”

          “ _So?_ ” Donut sounds incredulous _._ “We’re in the _armory_!!! I could set off a chain reaction!”

          “Just don’t pull the fucking pin, Donut!!” Simmons hisses.

          Carolina’s HUD begins to act up: her temperature and bio readout cycle wildly. _Suit temperature at 6733333BBB Celcius_? Sure. Then the enemy soldiers disappear off of Carolina’s radar one by one.

          Something’s hacking her HUD.

_Shit!_

          “But what if-”

          “That’s good enough, Donut! We don’t have time! Throw it!” Carolina shouts.

          Donut throws the grenade. They hear a flurry of yelps, and three seconds later Carolina sees the barely-there outlines of six soldiers hurry into the room. She lines up a shot and takes one out. Simmons behind her gets two with his semi-automatic. One falls to the ground, and the other’s camo unit fails, Donut gets him through the sternum. Carolina looks for more watery silhouettes. Sees one.

          And suddenly adrenaline fails her.

          Carolina’s tired.

          She’s fucking exhausted.

          She hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in months. The last thing she ate was some jerky that Grif handed her during the fight at Beat Cliff, while they were waiting for Hargrove’s forces to approach. It’s been less than an hour between the tower falling, and punching in the coordinates to this ship into their last teleportation grenade.

          She’s not a strapping, bright-eyed twenty something fresh off of steroids and a calculated diet anymore.

          So she shouldn’t be hard on herself when she doesn't anticipate the angle of cover that she needs and a bullet rips through her bicep. But when she screams “FUCK!” It’s more out of frustration than pain. Frustration because she’d gotten so used to being more than just herself, someone at her shoulder to tell her where she was falling short. So no one would even know she _could_ fall short. A friendly secret between her and….

          As her arm twinges and fails to hold up her pistol with so much of the muscle severed, all she can think about is how much she misses Epsilon.

          “Carolina!” Donut shouts in worry.

          “My arm’s fucked, but I’m okay.” She grimaces as she tries to access the healing unit that she and Epsilon had shoddily plugged into her armor after they’d found it in one of the pirate’s research facilities. Running it without an AI is much more taxing than the speed unit, but they have to survive this stand. They have to get those warheads out of commission. Too much is at stake. The feeling of tiny drills at her temples make her flinch as the healing unit gets running. Whatever it takes.

          “How many more?”

          “Three down, so four.” Simmons says. He lines up a shot. Crack. “Never mind, three left.”

          Carolina’s trackers come back for a second. A flicker, long enough to tell her there’s a soldier trying to flank her, coming around her bit of cover. Carolina drags herself into a crouch and tackles the soldier as they come into range. Their pistol goes flying out of their hands, but Carolina miscalculates, and slamming the soldier into the wall jostles her injured arm badly.

          “AGH!!”

          She’s dizzy, and now that the soldier has regained their balance, it's only a matter of seconds before their hands are around her throat. Carolina can only claw weakly with her good arm as the other jerks painfully in protest and dark spots begin to swim in her vision. She can faintly hear gunshots from what she has to assume are the Reds fighting the other soldiers, and as her eyes roll up into her head she can only hope that they win.

          Suddenly there's a THWACK!! And Carolina heaves in a huge lungful of air and promptly begins to cough and sputter and gasp and _air!_ Has air ever felt so good? Someone takes her helmet off and that’s even _better_.

          When Carolina can see again and can tell the floor and the ceiling apart, she realizes she's being held up by Grey.

          Taking her attempt at getting a hold of her surroundings and refocusing as confused staring, Grey holds up her medical scanner and cheerily states, “Don't need a pistol to pistol whip!” And when the soldier at their feet begins to groan and move, Grey demonstrates again by bashing them quickly over the head a second time. They don't move again.

          “What happened to ‘do no harm’?” Carolina slurs. Still woozy. God, she hopes she’s just dizzy and the ship isn’t falling. Except that would be good because then Hargrove can’t blow them all up, but bad. Because they’re all still on the ship. Oh wait, Grey is talking.

          “Sometimes to treat a patient, there's unavoidable harm involved to mitigate consequences down the road,” Grey replies swiftly. “Like when you amputate an arm to treat gangrene, or when you potentially give a soldier a concussion so that an entire planet doesn't experience nuclear armageddon!”

          Carolina thinks for a second.“.... that’s fair.”

          There's another gunshot and then Simmons speaks through the radio.

          “That makes five!”

          “Six,” Grey corrects. “We've got one here. Where's the last?”

          “Still in the hallway, he was mostly taking pot shots but I don't see him anymore-” Donut says. “...Aw fuck.”

          And Wash’s comment from so long ago overwrites Carolina’s shock at hearing Donut swear as she comes to the same realization that he does.

_You're going to make mistakes unless you take better care of yourself!_

          The grenade comes back. Bouncing off the wall and around the corner. Pin pulled this time.

          Carolina yanks on Grey’s chest piece and throws herself over the smaller woman a split second before the grenade goes off.

          It’s a series of bangs and flashes of fire as the initial explosion sets off a handful more, as well as some weaponry. A random gun goes off and must hit the room’s inertia dampener, because suddenly everyone can feel the tug of the ship’s ascent. Everyone except Carolina, who’s got bigger problems.

          It's agony. There's fire in her sides and her hip bone feels like it's split. It reminds her of the time her leg got dislocated, but if she had to guess, there's shrapnel in her leg socket. But she's not guessing, right now she's screaming behind clenched teeth. There's more sounds of gunfire she can barely hear over the pain flaring up her side, as Grey scrambles out from underneath her and immediately sets to work.

          “Is everyone else alright!?” She calls over the radio, before quickly whispering to Carolina “Sorry dear,” as she sets her medical tool to some sort of electromagnet, which yanks all of the shrapnel in Carolina’s leg out all at once. Carolina screams as the metal tears through her flesh again, but Grey stabs a biofoam pen into Carolina’s side right after and then it’s   _Click-hiss-whoosh_ as the cool foam fills the wounds.

          “We’re okay! Just scrapes!” Donut replies. “Well… looks like Lopez lost his head again, but other than that. Are you okay?”

          Grey helps Carolina into a sitting position. Carolina is definitely Not Okay, and she resists the instinctual ‘I’m fine’ from passing her lips. The blood seeping between her underarmor and her skin is hot hot hot.

          “Carolina is down, tell me you can take this last guy out!” Grey responds, still fussing with Carolina’s side, but Carolina can’t really tell what she’s doing down there. The pain feels like it’s a world away. Sounds are like she’s underwater, and she’s struggling to stay afloat. And God, her head...

          “We’re working on it!!” Shouts Simmons. “HEY IDIOT!!! YOU JUST THREW A LIVE GRENADE INTO AN ARMORY!!! ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID!!!???!?!”

          More gunfire. More potshots. Then an enthusiastic hoot from Simmons as the gunfire stops.

          Donut comes skidding around the corner with Simmons close behind the moment it’s clear. “Carolina!”

          “M’fine…” She can’t help but let it slip and preemptively flinches at Grey’s “You are not!!” pitched high into her ear. God, that sure doesn’t help the headache...

          “M’fine _enough_ , Emily…” Carolina grits her teeth. “I’ve got the healing unit running. You’ve… Gotta disable the warheads.”

          Grey’s attention snaps up from the wound. “You have- No. Agent Carolina you are _not fit enough to run an armor enhancement!!”_

          “It’s fine-”

          “No, it’s _not fine!!_ ” Grey shouts. “That needs an AI to run properly!! You’re doing yourself more harm than good!” She begins to feel around Carolina’s armor, looking for the mechanism in question. “I can heal you without you frying your brain, turn it off!!!”

          “No, I can do it- ahhh….”

          Grey yanks out the healing unit, and Carolina can’t help but sigh in relief as the pressure on her temples immediately lifts away.

          “But Grey,” Donut says. “What about the nukes?”

          Grey glances over her shoulder, to where Lopez has already recollected his head, set it next to the nearest trapdoor, and is lowering himself into the cavity below for the next nuke. Lopez is capable, but they need those warheads decommissioned _fast._ They can all feel how the Staff of Charon is rising.

          Making up her mind, Grey pushes her medical tool into Donut’s arms and gets up. “Keep that at 3.4 Gigahertz, no closer than three inches away from the wound, if the biofoam cracks, crank it up to 14 and pray to whatever god you believe in that it re-solidifies. And _keep her awake!!_ ”

          “You got it.” Donut finagles with the device and crouches down next to Carolina. Donut’s no longer a pink blur, and after a minute, Carolina thinks she’s no longer in danger of passing out. Even so, she’s not going to be getting up in a while.

          Simmons takes her helmet, and gives her his in return. It smells a little bit like diesel, but it’s better than nothing. Simmons stands guard, trying to get her motion trackers back up to keep an eye on the entrance, while Lopez and Grey tinker silently away.

          “Hey.” Donut says as she starts to doze off. “Tell me about that movie.”

          So she does. Tells him about how the original from 1982 was way better than the remake commemorating the first base established on Venus. How the changes to make it more scientifically accurate ruined the whole story. Mumbles about how she thought a lot about Margot when her family moved from Earth. How she met kids who’d grown up on space stations, and had never set foot on a planet. Had never set foot on _Earth_. How messed up that seemed.

          Donut’s a good listener, nodding in all the right places. Only piping up to keep her awake whenever she trails off and her head starts to roll to her shoulder.

          Simmons stands nearby, guarding over all of them. He gives her looks every once in a while, eavesdropping on her mumbles, and maybe Carolina’s just hallucinating, but he looks _sympathetic,_ a small tilt to his head. She knows what image she presents, it must be hard to imagine that Carolina could have ever been that little girl who loved classic movies. Who was nervous about moving away from home. Maybe he won’t be so scared anymore, will see her as another human being, another person on his team. Like Donut, or Grif, or even the Blues. Like Church even. Just another one of _them._

          She’s tired of people being scared of her.

          “¿Que es eso?” Lopez says suddenly. Carolina looks up to see the morbidly entertaining picture of Lopez’s headless body popping up from the lower level, turning as if looking around for something, though his head sits on the ground right next to him.

          “What is it, Lopez?” Asks Donut.

          “Es como ... Susurrando.”

          “No, Lopez! I don’t hear salsa music!” Donut huffs. “Get your head in the game! And back on your body! This is serious!”

          “No idiota…. Es- Oh- oh mierda.”

          Lopez’s body runs to the wall, scrabbling blind fingers into a locker, before pulling out something that looks like…. A parachute? He lurches in one direction before stopping and looking directly at Simmons. Well. ‘Looking’ as well as one can without a head.

          “Uhhhh….. Lopez?” The maroon soldier asks tentatively. The tentativeness transforms into harried shrieking when Lopez stalks over and hoists Simmons over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. And sure Simmons is struggling, but not nearly as much as he does when Lopez jumps down into the lower level again, stopping only to pick up his head in the other hand, and begins to climb into the launch tube.

          “Lopez!!!” Simmons shrieks. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?!?!?

          “Moviéndose fuera del alcance!!”

          “HELP!!!” Simmons has his arms free now and is pulling at the edge of the launch tube, but Lopez’s arms are a steel trap. “GET ME AWAY FROM THIS CRAZY FUCKING ROBOT!!!!!”

          Carolina makes to get up. Her teammate’s in trouble. She has to… she has to-

          But Donut’s got her beat: he’s lunging forward, and in a second he’s jumped down the steps and hauling back on Simmons’s chestpiece.

          “Lopez! No! What are you doing!?”

          “¡No hay tiempo! ¡Tengo que ir!” Lopez hesitates, before letting go of Simmons. Simmons and Donut fly back and crash into the stairs.

          Lopez lifts his fist. “... No mueras.” And slams it down onto the launch mechanism. The air pressure in the room violently changes as the launch tube opens, sucking Lopez out and into the sky.

          It’s a minute of confusion. Simmons is breathing hard, Donut is also breathing hard, Carolina is breathing shallowly, and the air of the room is whipping with wind, but everyone’s eyes are still locked on the launch tube, trying to process whatever the fuck it was that just happened.

          After a moment, Grey sinks back into her hole, and gets back to work as Donut and Simmons stand around in shock. Carolina eyes Grey’s medical tool, too far away to grab. But the healing unit…. Is still right within reach where Grey left it. Carolina slowly, gingerly, clicks it back into place.

          “No…. mueras?” Donut repeats slowly. “What does he mean, ‘ _Don’t die_ ’?”

          “That’s it!” Simmons shouts, dusting himself off and standing, ignoring Donut entirely. “That’s it! How many ship crashes have I been in? Did I ever get a fear of heights? Nope! I Almost saw Grif fall off a clif! Did I develop a fear of heights then? Nope!!” He takes a shaky breath, as he rises to the top level again. “That’s it! This is it! Once we’re done I’m never getting on a fucking ship again!”

          The ship decides right then to rumble and Simmons shrieks bloody murder in surprise, tripping back to the floor, and scrambling to find purchase on the nearest thing, which is Donut. It’s only a second before the inertia dampeners stutter back on, and once they do, someone is laughing at him.

          “Oh!!! Shut the fuck up, Tuck… Tucker…” Simmons trails off.

          Carolina’s chest clenches. _Tucker._ Donut turns to look at the doorway and the figure in white armor standing there while Simmons gapes. Sword in one hand, pistol in the other. Casually leaning against the doorframe like Carolina’s seen him do a million times.

          She still can’t quite tamper down the flurry of emotion she feels at seeing Maine’s armor being ferried around like that. So casually, so unconcerned with the man who’d died in it. But whatever has been going on with Tucker has what’s left of her attention now. She can’t find the mental fortitude to start the healing unit back up, and pain and blood loss is starting to make her delirious again.

          Brainwashing, they’d thought, but what exactly did Hargrove do to him? And can they break Tucker out? Is there anything even left of their friend, their comrade?

          Carolina feels a pang of hurt for Tucker, as the ruthless logic of the situation settles in. Whatever is wrong with him, stopping the ship has to take priority. And that means-.

          Wait, where’s Grey?

          “Tucker!” Donut shouts. “I’ll forgive you for throwing a hard one in my face if you’ll put the weapons down! Or-” He falters, his nervousness clear through his tone. “Whatever’s gotten into you, snap out of it!”

          “Oh, this never gets old.” There’s a grin in his tone. “You idiots just don’t get it. Tucker’s not home.”

          But even if Tucker’s not really here, they still have-

          “Church…” Carolina says. “Where’s _Church?”_

          “Oh right. Tucker mentioned you two had a _thing.”_ Tucker says. “What was it? Daughter-sister? What a weird relationship. Here’s the sparknotes version sweetheart; Church is dead.”

          “No.”

          No. That can’t be right. They still had _time_.

          She’d known about his power failures, though it took her too long to figure out what they meant. Took her too long to stop pushing him farther than he could go, but they _had time!_ Time to figure out how to fix him. Time to Sure he was old for an AI, but there’d never been a doubt in her mind that he would always be there for her. She knew. She’d heard his whispers. Felt his care and concern.

_Big Sis’._

          Before Epsilon, she’d never thought AI could truly feel. That they truly had minds of their own. Eta, Iota… newborn fragments, leeching off of her own psyche for development for the short while they were together. Nothing more than half formed fetuses that only knew what they were programmed to do. Even Tex. Carolina though she was like a machine before Carolina knew that she _literally_ was one. And then after the truth came to light, Carolina only ever saw her as a caricature, an imitation, a _shadow_. A personality matrix diluted with years of grief and idolatry. A memory of a memory.

          In this way, Carolina is too much like her father. She didn’t understand how an AI could be a person. She’d never thought they could possess souls of their own.

          But before Epsilon, she’d never had a _brother._

          And now he’s gone _._

          Carolina can’t react when Tucker makes his quip about them joining Church soon, or when Simmons begins to panic again.

          Church had known that he would die soon. He’d tried to prepare her, now that she looks back. Random moments of contemplation. Out of character encouragement, words of comfort when she was stressed, trying to get her to become closer to the others...

          Carolina barely registers Donut’s confusion when Simmons appears to spasm, or his fear when Simmons’s left hand whips to his throat and starts to choke himself. How Donut climbs on him to try to wrestle it away.

          He’d tried to prepare her. He couldn’t have known it would be this soon, but he knew. He tried to let her know but Carolina’s always been so damn stubborn...

          She barely notices when Tucker’s shoulders shake in a laugh, or when his pistol’s leveled at her.

          And now…..

          Two bullets punch through her gut, but Carolina is already on the ground, so sliding down scant inches further barely jolts her system.

          Church is dead. The chasm she felt in the moment before activating the force field at Beat Cliff yawns before her. It stretches on and on and on and she can’t see the other end. It’s loss, it’s shock, it’s zen. She can feel the healing unit slowly stutter up into a whir as Carolina tries to control her breathing.

          Tucker watches for a moment, and Carolina knows she just fucked up somehow. He walks over to her confidently. A familiar swagger, but the measured, predatory pace betrays the person steering his body, and it is not really like Tucker at all. He crouches over her, and Carolina can see her reflection in the golden dome of his helmet. She looks like shit.

          “Looks like you have something I want.” Tucker’s hand slides to the side of her armor and gently pulls out the healing unit. “You won’t get much use out of it anymore anyways, how you even ran it without an AI… Huh.”

          Tucker pauses and considers her thoughtfully. Carolina’s attention is fractured. Church gone. Simmons’s hand is now on Donut’s neck and the two men are fighting to pry it off. The stare of Maine’s helmet, her own defeated reflection in it. And… _Where is Grey?_?

          Tucker stands suddenly and busies himself with installing the healing unit into his own armor. “Well, I’ll pick you apart if you live.” He looks at the two reds indifferently, Donut slowly stilling under a panicking Simmons. “Weren’t there four of you?”

          Carolina can’t keep herself from glancing at the still-open launch tube. Tucker catches her, and then observes the room more carefully. He sees the missing parachute, and seemingly puts two and two together.

          “The doctor was the other one, right?” Tucker laughs. “Truly the smartest person on the planet. Death by nuclear fire is a faster, less painful way to go than how you all are going to be perishing.” Donut seems to illustrate his point, banging on the metal floor, like it will summon help.

          When Tucker leaves it’s anticlimactic. Carolina barely notices him go; her leg feels numb, and cold is creeping up her chest as blood slowly bubbles out from her stomach. Choked sounds come from Donut, and apologetic cries from Simmons.

          Donut’s arm finally falls limp twenty seconds later, and Simmons goes silent in shock, before his arm latches back onto his own throat and his struggles begin anew. Carolina can only watch.

          Grey silently creeps up out of her hole under the floor. Her armor’s nowhere to be seen, and, once she sees that the coast is clear, she heads straight to Simmons with a device that looks Macgyvered to hell, with wires sticking out all over and a metal fork on the end- a taser that makes Simmons’s arm fall limp to his side. He rolls over and crawls away as fast as he can, pulls off Carolina’s helmet and throws it across the room in anguish. He starts to sob.

          “Breathe, Simmons.” She says, professional as ever, grabbing her medical tool and checking over Donut. “C’mon boy, in- One, two, three. Out- one, two three...”

          After a minute she seems satisfied with Simmons’s ability to count, and lets him stave off his panic attack by himself.

          Carolina finds her voice, barely. “How did you….”

          “My undersuit has bio-signature masking abilities, I was developing the technology during the civil war so us medics could provide aid without becoming targets.” Grey answers. “But I suspected that that.... _thing_ could hack our armor’s biofeeds, so I tossed mine out the launch tube!”

          “...Hack?” Carolina slurs. Someone hacked her helmet, didn't they? She’s so cold...

          “I don’t want to confirm anything just yet….” Grey’s brows furrow into a troubled expression. Well, more troubled than it already it. “Let’s just say…. A mutual friend might have inspired a hypothesis.”

          She jolts Donut with the medical tool.

          “I have no idea how, but he’s alive. Simmons, get over here, I know you only have the one arm right now, but I need you to perform CPR.”

          “C-Can’t you-?” Simmons stutters. He paints a terrified picture in his corner of the room. Tear tracks, a face blotchy and red. Half his limbs hang limp and dead, and the others curl up, tense and neurotic.  “I-I can’t! I can’t- What if-”

_Cold…._

          “Simmons!!” Grey shouts. “I can’t focus on him right now!”

_She’s so cold..._

          “Why not!?”

          And, as if on cue, Carolina slumps to the floor, and passes out.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOOOOOOOOOO. Holy fuck. I'll probably read this in the morning and edit out like a bazillion errors but I think? It's good to go? Once again, BIG thanks to [A_Taller_Tale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale) for giving me fresh eyes on this. It would be infinitely worse without her feedback. <3
> 
> We're getting near the final confrontation guys!!!! And then I promise- I promise I promise I promise, I'll start delivering on the COMFORT, bc lord knows up until this point it's been pretty much all HURT. :^D
> 
> As usual if you spot a typo or some weird formatting problems, please let me know!
> 
>  
> 
> Lopez dialogue for those of us who don't wanna open another tab for google translate but you probably already did, whoops:
> 
> _"What is that?"_  
>  "It's like.... Whispering."  
> "No idiot... it- Oh- Oh shit.  
> "Moving out of range!!"  
> "There's no time! I have to leave!"  
> "... Don't die."


End file.
